The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
by karebear
Summary: They are used to long separations. Rhyanon could argue that they are more used to being apart than together. And they are bound by broken promises, even if the details of those fractures are still somewhere down the line. Headcanon, Awakening timeframe. Anders and Amell don't quite come together. Maybe it's too late for that. Maybe some things were just never meant to be.
1. Chapter 1

Reports of a lover's tryst were neither clear nor descript; we kept it safe and slow.  
(I lie for only you,  
And I lie well.)  
- Brand New

Fighting makes things harder.

Rhyanon has been deliberately avoiding it since Denerim – not because she doesn't feel angry enough – Maker knows she's been half a step from lashing out at nearly every person unfortunate enough to cross her path, and only her years in the Circle are preventing her from doing so. She can feel the volatile spikes and edges of her magic, and the insistent urging whispers attached to them, no matter whether she is awake or asleep. She doesn't want to fight because when she does – when she follows this Mhairi into the fray, throwing fire and shocks of lightning, falling into the rhythm all too easily, like no time at all has passed, when she does this, she keeps looking over her shoulder, reaching out into the Fade, searching for someone who isn't here and won't ever be, and his absence rips her apart all over again.

"Are you alright, Commander?" Mhari asks, in one of those surprising still pauses in between the chaotic rush of war.

Rhyanon wipes the sweat from her forehead and presses forward, into the shadowed darkness of the Keep, telling herself she is _not _avoiding Mhairi's question. She searches – with eyes and magic – for more waiting darkspawn, but there seem to be none left to distract her.

"I'm fine," she replies, too quickly and too stiffly, but Mhairi simply nods, not questioning it. Rhyanon moves forward, toward louder sound, and toward a familiar presence that makes her heart race and her head hurt. She starts running, before she even realizes she's doing so, before she can stop herself. Caution and fear war in her mind, but there's still a part of her that has to see if she's right, that has to _know_. The soldiers she is supposed to be leading – the battered remants of the Keep's people – all fade away.

She moves forward, into a quiet, empty room. No. Not quite empty. The magic she'd been feeling overwhelms her, suddenly. It wraps around her heart, it burrows deep into her body. She tucks herself into that wave, and tears sting her eyes, so she closes them. She doesn't need to see to know him. She recognizes him immediately.

When she opens her eyes again and takes a careful, ragged breath, it's to see him watching her, with a teasing grin on his face and wisps of smoke curling around his finger. But he looks so different. Older. Thinner. Harder. But even more than all of that is the absolute _power_ he's throwing around. She's never seen him do that. Magic in the tower is limited. He's not even at full strength, though he's close. And she can tell that too. And still, she's almost drowning in the strength of that spell he just tossed. Seeing him again makes it hard to breathe. What the hell is he doing here?

"Anders?" Her voice shakes a little. She blames it on the adrenaline of the fight, still pumping through her system, but the truth is that it has a lot more to do with seeing _him_. She wants to cry, to wrap her arms around him, to reassure herself that this is real. That _he's_ real. She forces herself to calm. She's in charge of these people. The woman hovering behind her radiates enough nervous tension that Rhyanon doesn't need to add to it.

But she loses all composure the minute Anders looks up to meet her eyes. _His_ eyes are not the same. Those warm brown eyes she remembers from the Tower, when he'd kept her safe, they're gone. What she sees now are dark, hollow pits.

She's seen it before, of course she has. He's looked like this more times than she wants to count, more than she wishes she she remembered, when she'd desperately tried and failed to pull him through after the long empty stretches of never-talk-about-it time when he was locked up in solitary. But back then, her touch was enough to snap him into motion, if not lucidity. Sometimes he just pushed her away, but that was okay. It was enough to remind both of them that he was still stubborn enough to fight. This, right now, is worse than any of those times, and a shiver runs down Rhyanon's spine as she is forced to recognize it. She gnaws on her lower lip. She forces herself to look beyond him, to those corpses lying at his feet. Darkspawn. And Templar. Their armor is corroded, dented, shot through with electricity and ice.

She should be afraid of him. She should force him to explain this. But she won't. She can't. How could she?

Instead, she crouches down to his level - there are still shackles around his ankles, and a rough rope loosely threaded at his wrists. He flinches away from her, and that hurts more than anything. "Anders, it's okay," she soothes. She strokes him gently, the way she would a wounded animal, and somehow it breaks her even more that he still won't push her away. She waits, holding her breath, for him to snap that he isn't fucking _broken_, or dangerous. She waits for him to tell her to trust him, or cling to her the way he sometimes used to, but he doesn't respond at all. He doesn't even seem to recognize her touch.

Rhyanon blinks the tears away with careful purpose and draws in another deep breath as she slowly begins to undo the bindings. Her fingers skip under the weeping blisters there under the chafing metal. Anders shudders under the inconsequential pressure of her touch. Tears sting her eyes, and she ducks her head so that she doesn't have to look him in the eye because she's pretty sure she can't. Her arms wrap around him instinctively, and she helps him, gently, to his feet. She doesn't even think about this anymore; she's just helping a fellow soldier wounded on the battlefield. She's done it too often, but it's easier too, because she doesn't have to admit that it's him; she doesn't have to confront what that means.

"Melly?"

Her heart skips a beat as Anders whispers her name, disbelieving. She glances up, and those clouded, confused eyes pull her in before she can break away. She's almost positive that neither of them are breathing. His eyes sear into hers, a focused stare that grows no less potent as he blinks repeatedly, trying to clear his head. His movements are slow, dazed. But Rhyanon feels it the moment he freezes, growing still and unnaturally tense. He chokes, and his eyes widen with fear. Pure terror. He trembles as recognition dawns, as his eyes sweep over that sword-and-flame sigil, now blackened. Dead at his feet.

"I didn't do it," he protests, with a strangled whine that makes her stomach clench. "Rhyanon, you have to believe me!"

She just looks at him. She doesn't believe him. How can she, when the evidence is right in front of her? She too stares at those broken bodies. It scares her how easy it's become to stare at corpses. Even human ones. She focuses on one templar in particular. One she knows. Not the worst one, but bad enough. Her head spins. She can still taste the mana in the air, along with the smells of war: blood and fire. But she can block that out now too. "I don't blame you," she says simply. Her voice is hard. Battle-hardened. But she feels scared, more now than she has in a long time. Because it's _him_. Because now she has to remember where she came from. What she's running from, what she used to be.

Anders takes a step back, and Rhyanon isn't sure if she's imagining it, but she's certain she sees him cringe. It's the second time in as many minutes that he's flinched away from her. "I didn't do it!" he demands, more firmly. His voice has lost its panicky edge. He sounds more certain, yet somehow that only makes his desperation even more clear, and Rhyanon has to clench her fingers into a tight fist to keep them from giving away how twitchy she is. He makes her lose her mind. He always has, but she knows him. _He isn't her_. He isn't a killer. She's _watched_ him. He never fought the templars, no matter how badly they hurt him. He never fought back, not physically. He wouldn't kill them. Or at least... the Anders she knew wouldn't kill them. But probably she doesn't know him anymore. He doesn't know her, and he _can't. _She can't let him see her as anything other than the innocent little girl he knows.

"What happened?" she asks softly. Let him tell her. Maybe it'll even be the truth.

Anders frowns. He talks to the corpses, not to her. He sounds as though he's trying to apologize. Or maybe justify. He shoots a confused glance back in her direction. He still holds himself tense, submissive even. As though waiting for punishment. "It felt like a whole army," he whispers, as his eyes linger on the eight or nine bodies littering the floor between them.

He tells her that the templars had lowered the wards, begged desperately for his help, _begged _him to use his magic to protect them from the oncoming darkspawn. And he'd laughed at them. Spit in their faces. He'd been _furious_. Help them? After everything they'd done to him? They deserved to die!

He says it with such cold fury that Rhyanon is chilled. Though she agrees. She agrees with every word he's saying.

But in the end he couldn't do it. Anders is a healer. It would rip away his very soul to kill another human being in cold blood. He couldn't do it. Not even to them.

"We fought them together. I... I don't remember too much. It's all confusing, Mel. But I _know _I didn't kill them. I know it! I... couldn't have?"

The question there, at the end, hangs in the air like a ghost. Barely perceptible, yet it cuts like a knife.

"Okay," she says simply. If he says he didn't do it, she'll believe him. It's that simple. She has to allow it to be that simple. She'll believe him. Or at least she'll try. She push away the nagging doubts that whisper in the back of her mind. It doesn't matter anyway.

"Okay," he repeats, slowly. And then comes the explosion: "Nothing's okay!" he shouts. "They're _dead_, and they _shouldn't be_!"

Who is he, to lecture her? Where would he be now if they weren't dead? "Better them than you!" she screams.

She means it. She'd thought she'd lost him forever. She _cannot _lose him again.

He falls into a shocked silence. He blinks, and sighs. And he slowly shakes his head. The disbelief is written on his face. "You don't mean that," he insists. "You _can't _mean that." She feels the piercing stab of his disappointment deep in her heart. It bleeds into her stomach. "What happened to you, Rhyanon?" he asks softly.

She's shaking. Crying. She can't look at him. He _can't _know. "You told me outside was dangerous," she reminds him. A long, _long _time ago. So long ago it may as well have happened to someone else. "More dangerous than the tower. I didn't believe you." She shrugs. "That's what happened."

Her voice sounds unfamiliar, even to herself. It sounds hollow. Dead. It is _scary_. She sounds dead. And scary.

"Yeah, I can see that," Anders quickly confirms.

Rhyanon swallows hard and forces herself to stop crying. She _wants _him to comfort her. To tell her everything will be okay, the way he used to. But they are not children anymore, and the time for games and comforting illusions is long past. He cannot simply wrap his arms around her until she grows sick of asking questions for him to deflect with a teasing grin and a careful lie. He cannot and he will not. And why should he?

She's gotten used to people keeping their distance from her, she's insisted that it doesn't matter. But not Anders. He's supposed to _stay_. When he can, which is never for long enough, but he _can't _push her away because that would give her permission to do the same to him and she will never ever let that happen. There have been more broken promises in her life than she can even count but _not that one_. She wraps her arms tightly around herself and doesn't look at him, she keeps her voice carefully steady. "How did you get here?" she asks. She asks like she'd ask a random stranger found in this same position. She is guarded and unemotional. She has to separate herself from her knowledge of _him _or there is no way she will not fall apart completely.

Anders laughs, and the sound is harsh and bitter. "What do you think?" he spits. "Wanna guess?"

He motions to the dead templars, as if to point out the absolute obviousness.

Rhyanon smiles a little bit, a cold smile. She crouches next to the corpses and begins to rifle through their gear. It's disgusting, but she doesn't process that. She doesn't allow herself to recognize that Anders might find the action disturbing either. She's simply focused on getting what they'll need to survive and move on. She can't find what she's looking for, yet that doesn't stop her from tucking away everything useful: weapons, potions, vials of lyrium... she stuffs those into the small pouch at her belt and continues rifling through the pockets hidden under the templars' armor. Sometimes they wore them around their necks, close to the heart...

"It's not here," Anders insists. Rhyanon glances up. He's staring down at her with a look of open hurt. Betrayal. She frowns. The guilt squirms in her stomach, but why is she guilty?

"What are you talking about?" she asks, forcing a casual confusion that has no hope of fooling him.

"Oh, come on, Amell!" he snaps. "Why don't you just tell me to my face that you don't trust me?"

The anger in his voice rattles her. It's not as if they'd never fought. But this is different. _Amell_. He's _never_ called her that. That's the teacher name for her. That's what Greagoir calls her. It hurts, to hear it coming from him. People who call her that are on the wrong side. And he should know that. He _does _know that.

"What the hell are you talking about?! Of course I trust you!"

It's surprising, how easy it is to say. 'Of course.' Nothing's 'of course' anymore. But this is. Always.

"Why are you looking for my phylactery?" he asks evenly. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't do that."

His voice is calm, yet it tips her over the edge. More than if he'd been yelling.

"I was looking for it to give it to you! Or destroy it. Moron!"

The teasing doesn't come off like it should, not even close. It feels like there's a hand wrapping itself tightly around her heart, squeezing. She cannot look at him. Her voice is stolen. She forces herself to ask, to push the words out, though they are soft, barely audible: "Do you really think I'd..." she cannot even finish the question. What if the answer is 'yes'? It clearly _is. _

He asks her about trust, but this is what he thinks of her.

He holds her gaze, with those cold, haunted eyes.

She doesn't know him anymore, doesn't even recognize this bitter, broken man. And she closes down completely.

Why should she be surprised? They're not kids, neither of them, and they haven't been for a long time. And she doesn't believe in promises. He promised not to leave her, and that didn't last. Why should he stay now? She nods toward the door. "Fine. Go then." The words are cold, but that makes it easy. She is an _expert _in broken promises now. She doesn't trust anything. Not even him. Maybe she was wrong to from the start. She watches him go, running away from her without looking back, even though he seems barely able to stumble. She _lets _him go, without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders has no idea what he's doing. The walls of the Keep loom above him, close and thick and heavy and way, _way _too close to Tower walls for his comfort, even collapsing as they are, torn apart by newer attacks. Are there still darkspawn here? He has no idea. No... he _does _know. He can feel them, feel their tainted magic in the air. Coming from them, and from... her. He feels a sharp twinge of pain in his chest, like sharp-taloned fingernails closing around his heart as he thinks of Rhyanon. It hurts to breathe, but he knows he can't run away. Not from her, not again. Not now.

He climbs instead, moving upward without letting himself think about much. He knows what people think about him, he's heard them say it over and over: that he can't see the danger in running headlong into a fight he can't win, that he doesn't care about what happens to him. It's not true. But moving is better than staying still, always. So he moves, one step at a time through the twisting, claustrophobic corridors that he won't let himself be afraid of.

His hands grow damp with sweat, and he literally gasps with relief when he slams a trapdoor open and pulls himself out to the roof. He feels safer under open sky, even when it means that he is only steps away from the remnants of the attacking darkspawn force. He can hear the sounds of the battle, weapons and shouted commands, and he listens extra carefully because he can hear her voice mixed in among all of them. No, not mixed in... Rhyanon is louder, more demanding, more... in charge. It is a sobering thought, one he doesn't quite know what to do with.

He probes carefully, not wanting to throw himself into this fight. He's had more than enough of darkspawn already, and it still hurts to use his ducks down behind cover, watching. Trying to think, to plan.

He looks at this in the same way he remembers watching in the Tower. He can see the way people move and predict how to get around them. Escape and evade.

But Rhyanon _doesn't _do that. She fights, until she absolutely can't anymore.

They call him the stupid one, but they don't know her like he does. As he waits behind cover, Rhyanon stands toe-to-toe with the darkspawn mage, who looms over her. She fights it fearlessly, even injured as she is. She _can't _win this.

Can she?

His heart pounds as he watches Rhyanon collapse helplessly amongst the darkspawn. Yet, against all logic, none advance toward her.

None except the big one, who weaves unfamiliar magic in his fingers. Rhyanon fights back as Anders watches helplessly from behind a corner. He wrinkles his nose against the horrid smell of the darkspawn and the dead, charred flesh and rotting meat. The fight comes no more easily to him now than it did an hour ago. He has no fucking idea what he is supposed to do, he only knows that he cannot walk away. He cannot _run _away. Not from this.

He remembers with horror the refugees he'd met on the long road to Amaranthine, who had lost everything and left behind nothing but corpses of family members; women raped and children murdered. The Hero of Ferelden had supposedly ended the Blight, yet no single person could have prevented the inevitable tide of war. And the darkspawn are still here.

He swallows hard and tells himself that he is allowed to fight.

There had been rumors back a thousand lifetimes ago, of mages allowed to leave the tower, recruited into an army he would never be able to confirm even existed. It had seemed simply another exageration, another tease, another false hope. It didn't matter anyway; long before a war began and ended in the south of Ferelden, he'd lost his own more personal war. A year in solitary, cut short, he _thinks,_ by the collapse of the only home he'd ever known. He left the familiar terrifying dark and stumbled into a world that is, if anything, even worse.

When he stops to think about it, he struggles to hold onto reality. Everything is scrambled and out of order. He does what he always does when it gets hard. He picks one thing he knows: he's still alive. And if he's still alive, he can still fight.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself not to give up. He forces himself to focus, to _watch_.

He is keeping an eye on eveyone, but especially on her. He sees how she's struggling. Rhyanon's spells get weaker, and that damn emissary is so impossibly strong. The darkspawn concentrates his attacks on her. And Anders is scared. He's afraid for her. His heart is still racing, but that doesn't mean he knows what to do. Should he save his energy for healing spells? Should he rush in and attack, help her with the enemy? He's no battle mage. He would probably only get into the way, be more of a danger for her than an actual help. So he sends out rejuvenation spells in frequent intervals, trying to cover as many fighters as possible.

Anders knows that Rhyanon feel that sudden unnatural rush, sweeping away her tiredness and restoring strength to her flagging muscles. He watches as she turns to look for the source. Her brow wrinkles in confusion, and he wonders if she imagines it's just wishful thinking, if she believes he's already gone. He reaches out to touch her, through the Fade, a more personal kind of reassurance. And that's the moment of distraction that lets the darkspawn overpower her.

Anders curses. Panic threatens to overwhelm him. He rushes into the fight, not caring for his own safety. He has to get to her. This is his fault! Without thinking, he dives through the darkspawn and soldiers fighting. He doesn't notice when a blade catches him in the side, he isn't even sure who hit him, whether it was darkspawn or Warden. All he sees is Rhyanon, on the floor, unconscious, bleeding... and it's his fucking fault! He'd distracted her with his own stupid incompetent inexperience, he shouldn't even _be _here and they both know it.

_Just let her be okay_, he prays, he _begs_. Let her be okay and I'll disappear. I won't get her in trouble ever again. They are promises he can't afford to make. But that's never stopped him before.  
He's breathing hard when he finally gets to her. He grabs her arm and drags her away from the initial danger. He's lucky that someone else was there to take her place immediately after she went down, some who now has the emissary distracted from him. He's barely aware of that too-tired soldier, a hastily-armored peasant never trained to fight darkspawn. That he's survived the Blight for this many months is testament to the boy's strength. He holds his own against the monsters bearing down on them, although he is sweating heavily and breathing hard.

Anders _wants _to care about him, and all the others like him, all of the already-dead bodies littering this rooftop and this fortress. But thinking about it is too much to handle, so he blocks it all out – their whimpers of pain and the smell of their blood on the air. He ignores everything except for the feel of Rhyanon's limp form beneath his touch. His hands fly over her in feverish haste. He pours every ounce of mana that he can get a hold of into her. She's still breathing. But it looks like the darkspawn mage did serious damage. He'd sapped her of her mana and broken several bones when he crushed his shield into her chest. Cold sweat runs down Anders' back. _Concentrate! _he demands, but he's not listening to himself. It gets harder by the second. He mends bone, muscle, flesh, but even though he feels that it works and that she is slowly coming back to, the panic inside him won't subside.

His vision gets blurry. _No! Not now!_ He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

"Come on, Melly!" he whispers urgently. "Stay with me!" He prays and pleads and begs and slams his fist down hard into the stone beneath him. His side hurts. Why does it hurt? But he ignores the pain. That's not important right now. She is. Nothing else.

His hands tremble. He has trouble breathing. "Melly, do you hear me? Melly! _Rhyanon_!" She hears him. He knows she does, because she tries to talk, but it just turns into a burning cough. "Don't move. Try to lie still. I'm here, love, it's okay..." Anders mumbles under his breath, barely realizing what he's saying.

He feels her pain; he feels her struggling for air. He concentrates on her lungs, he tries to find the source. Magic is _so much easier_ when he knows what to do, and he knows how to do this. He's not a fighter, but he _is _a healer. He can do this without thinking, and that's a damn good thing.

"Alistair?" Rhyanon manages to choke out.

She tries to blink her eyes open, but all she gets is blurry spots of darkness swimming through this unfocused haze. She lets them slip closed again. Everything's buzzing. She feels cold. Really, really cold.

The blue light around Anders' hands flickers and fades. He moans.

And she hears him. In pain. She hears _him_, even through her barely-conscious state. She opens her eyes and ignores the pain. Ignores everything. "Anders."

She needs to help him. He needs help. He needs her.

She's got nothing left, though. No mana. Nothing. But she _does _have lyrium, the vials carefully tucked into the pouch at her belt. She fumbles for it, and drinks it down without thinking. And then she dumps that power into him. She has to make sure he's okay!

Anders hisses when that sudden spike of power hits him. The energy floods his system no matter how he tries to fight it, tries to stop it. He knows what she's doing, and what it will do to her in her already fragile state. "No!" he cries out, desperate. He's too weak already, though. He can't stop her. Tears burn in his eyes. _I can't lose her! Please, don't take her from me!_

Rhyanon keeps trying. She can feel how much pain he's in. She can hear him screaming. It gets harder though. Slower. She can't control what she's doing. She can't see anything. "Anders, 'm sorry," she mumbles. "I can't..." The blackness closes in.

She's breathing, but it's shallow and thready. Her heart is racing.

His trembling fingers reach out for her. He'd seen her pocketing those vials from the dead templars earlier. He needs to get a hold of one. One is enough. It's all he'll need.

His knuckles brush against cool glass, and he closes his sweaty palm around the vial. It takes almost more effort than he has left to give to pull the stopper and choke down the bitter electric potion. The tingling sharpness cuts down his throat and floods him with an icy heat. He draws a sharp breath, struggling to adjust to the sudden shock of mana flooding his system. His vision clears, though it is still blurry at the edges.

He rests his palm flat on her chest, searching for the source of her pain.

There. There it is. He closes his eyes. Concentrates harder. He needs to do this right. She cannot die. He tries to be careful, tries to hurt her as little as possible. She's already in enough pain. But he tells himself she'll be better in a minute. He can do it. He's healed worse than some broken ribs.

"You'll be alright, you hear me?" he whispers, close to her ear. "I promise. You'll be alright."

She relaxes as the pain begins to fade. Her breathing evens out.

"Yes, that's good," Anders murmurs soothingly. "That's it. Breathe. Just breathe, okay? Relax. It's okay." His fingers comb through her hair. His voice is hoarse. Exhausted. "It's okay," he repeats, over and over.

Her closed eyes are twitching rapidly. Her heartbeat is still faster than it should be. She's dreaming. Her lips move, but make no sound. The words are unintelligible.

Anders breathes a kiss to her forehead and pours more healing magic into her: low, pulsing waves of rejuvenating energy. He's at the brink himself, nearly fading out of consciousness. He recognizes the sensation all too well. But he fights the blackness with all his might. He can't give up until she can rest easy. Until he's _sure._

His limbs are heavy, filled with lead. He can barely keep his eyes open anymore.

Rhyanon's heart rate gradually slows. She is safe. Stable. But she is going to be out for a long time. That lyrium crash is very, very rough. He wants to scream at her some more, for being so stupid, but he can't find it in himself to care. He falls asleep with her in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders jerks to sudden alertness and nearly panics as he struggles to come to terms with where he is and what's real. He's in an unfamiliar bed, in a too-bright room. Pain lingers at the edges of his consciousness, but it's fuzzy, almost unnoticeable. Memories assault him, old and new, along with the rough empty grating _pull_ of reaching for mana that he doesn't have. It feels as though he can't breathe, though he knows rationally that what his body is reaching for has nothing to do with air. He only _feels _like he's suffocating. He can endure this washed-out emptiness indefinitely. He has before.

He rubs the heel of his hand against his eyelids until it hurts and leaves dark spots to contrast with the sunlight streaming in through a large window across the room. Then he pulls himself to his feet, still confused and overwhelmed, but _knowing _that there is someone more important than him. Always.

"Ah. You're awake."

Anders spins around and throws out a hand, already calling for energy to cast a protective shield or an offensive spell, and he isn't honestly sure which. But it doesn't matter because he can't do either. The instant he tries, his head spins, and he nearly trips. He manages to catch himself on the edge of the bed. It isn't graceful, but it's much better than landing face first in front of... he glances up with a sheepish smile.

"Erm..." he manages.

A dwarf with a braided red beard grunts in a way that makes it all too obvious that he's laughing at the human mage. The dwarf scratches himself in a surprisingly casual manner, yet he carries a clearly well-used axe strapped to his back, and his eyes are narrowed and obviously evaluating Anders. He snorts. "Dunno why they're all so scared of you, really," he mutters.

Anders frowns. "Who're you?"

The dwarf smiles. "Name's Oghren. I'm sure the Hero would've told you all about me, if she wasn't finally getting her beauty sleep. Heh. Go figure she 'as to be knocked out before she actually _listens _when someone tells her to go to bed. She told me to look out for you. Make sure you're alright and all."

The stream of new information is almost too much for Anders to handle. "Melly," he whispers softly. The dwarf shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess. Look, I know you two are... close. Girl's not as good at keepin' secrets as she thinks."

"She's alright?"

"If you are, she is."

Anders nods, then wonders if he is.

He can move. That's a start. He needs to see her, talk to her. He needs to make sure she's okay. That hasn't changed.

"Templars are here," the dwarf says simply, still holding Anders' gaze. "After you. Both of you, maybe. Varel's holding them off."

Panic flares in Anders' stomach. Templars. No. No, no, no... he was supposed to be safe from them. He made himself a promise. He will _never_ go back with them, never, ever again. And he damn sure won't let Rhyanon get hurt. Not again, not _ever. _

"Aw, sit down, Sparklefingers," Oghren snorts. He moves with surprising gentleness, grabbing Anders' wrist and holding him to be sure he doesn't panic. The dwarf glances quizzically at the dwarf, clearly aware that there is more than the obvious at work here. "She ain't scared."

Anders just shakes his head. He doesn't care what the dwarf thinks. He nearly throws him out of the way. He can't know what kind of threat he's talking about. No one can, not like he does. He knows, and Rhyanon knows. And the last time he saw her, she was unconscious, nearly dead, pulling on lyrium enough to _really _make him scared.

And the last time before that, she'd... he shakes his head. No. Maybe he was wrong. _Maybe_... it's another reason to be scared, another reason to protect, another reason he has to talk to her...

He storms through the halls of the Keep, without waiting for permission or directions. He can find her. There can't be that many options. He pushes toward a halfway-opened doorway within view, he takes long footsteps, cutting the distance and the time before he reaches her. She's conscious. Groggy, but awake, and he can feel the surge of her magic, still tainted and dark, and he almost wants to cry because he knows that if he can feel it, the templars can feel it too. They stand between him and her, and he hates himself for it, but just their presence sends a surge of adrenaline flushing through his system. He wants to run. His heart pounds, but he forces himself to calm. He bows his head and makes himself appear non-threatening. He tells himself that he is not afraid of them. He's lying to himself, but not to her. Rhyanon looks up and meets his eyes, and what he sees is all hardened warrior, but he can still feel _her _underneath: the stubborn, fiery girl that he knows. She pulls herself to her feet. She is exhausted, but able to stand. At the moment, Anders is certain that she looks stronger than he does. Yet again, he finds himself impressed watching her. He crosses his arms over his chest and tells himself that it's still Rhyanon. She's the same person, just grown up, that's all.

"This is _my ground_," she snarls to the armored man who towers over her with fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The templar is ready to lash out physically or magically or both; he's practically daring her to give him an excuse to steal her power, and maybe her life. "You have no authority here," Rhyanon says calmly, holding the man's eyes from behind his helmet's visor. Her voice doesn't shake at all as she says it. Anders knows it never does. Rhyanon can _talk. _She can hold attention, just with her words, she can buy time. And sometimes, when she's very, very lucky, she can buy more than that, things no mage should be able to get.

"The Chantry holds ultimate authority," spits a _too-familiar _voice, and Anders looks away from Rhyanon and tries not to let on how terrified and twisted that voice makes him feel. _Everything_ comes crashing back on top of him. But he knows how to handle this. Maybe _he _can buy a little time. Unfamiliar certainty... that's all there is between him and Rylock. He knows how things work between the two of him, and he is sure that he can pull the female templar's attention away from Rhyanon.

"Leave her alone," Anders growls. He steps in between the two women, desperate to protect Rhyanon from the too-real threat in front of them. He wants more than anything to sweep a bit of healing magic over her, to make sure she's okay – if she'd even let him. "You're here for me," he says to the dark-haired templar. He puts a little bit of force behind the words.

Rylock smirks. "I'm here for _both of you_," she corrects. She shakes her head. "This isn't a fucking game anymore."

"You think I'm gonna let you... what? Kill us? I sure as fuck am not going back to the Tower!"

"Anders, shut up!"

He glances at Rhyanon, who stands up and, although she is shorter by far than anyone else in the room, somehow manages to seem stronger by force of personality, something he's rarely managed. She takes things seriously. He can only get people to look at him when they think he's someone to laugh at.

Rylock reluctantly looks away from Anders, to the Warden Commander who used to tag along with him through the halls of Kinloch Hold. "Surely you can't think you'll get away with this."

Rhyanon ignores her and focuses on the other woman in the room, the queen who has been standing quietly, practically hidden by the armored templars, holding herself carefully and wearing a mask of practiced boredom. Rhyanon can recognize the tension in her though. "What are you doing here?" she askes pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Queen Anora. She doesn't care for any of the verbal flourishes or titles that she's supposed to add, and Anora raises an eyebrow at the breach of protocol, but she makes no further comment. "You brought _templars _with you," Rhyanon stresses. "Why?! If you were going to have me killed, why bother sending me all this way?"

"I have no desire to have you killed," Anora replies stiffly. She takes a step forward and reaches out a soothing hand. Rhyanon twists out of the way. She has no desire to be friendly with this poisonous snake of a woman, the one who betrayed her and landed her in Fort Drakon, the one who actively worked to take the throne from its rightful heir. _Alistair_...

As always, the memories physically hurt. They suck Rhyanon's breath away. "You have everything you want!" Rhyanon screams. Sparks of power flicker within her; she keeps them carefully quenched, knowing that one slip is all the excuse the templars will need.

"The templars are not here for you. I honor my word."

Rhyanon snorts at that, but she nods carefully, acknowledging the point. "They're not getting him either," she says evenly. Her eyes flicker over to Anders, and it bothers her how tense he is: hands clenched tightly into fists, shallow, careful breathing, head bowed. He isn't fighting.

"This Keep will not be allowed to provide haven for maleficarum!" Rylock snaps.

"This Keep is a fortress belonging to the Grey Wardens," Rhyanon reminds everyone. She speaks softly, calmly, the way she used to when she was practicing these skills at Irving's fireside, or arguing with the Knight Commander, constantly walking the fine line that kept him listening instead of seeing her as a troublemaker or a threat. "This is sovereign ground, owing alleigance to no crown. Not even to the Chantry."

"Magic is meant to serve man, never to -"

"I _know _the Chant," Anora snaps testily. "This woman may be a mage, but she is also Warden Commander and guardian of Amaranthine at _my _order, and the _only reason _the darkspawn didn't slaughter us all."

Rhyanon blinks, and snaps her jaw shut, hopefully before anyone else was able to notice her pure shock. "Thank you," she says softly.

Anora shrugs. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

"She is hardly a simple mage," Rylock protests desperately. "And neither is he. With all due respect, your majesty, you have neither authority nor expertise in this matter. And if you allow these two to remain here unchecked, they _will _be trouble that you can ill afford."

"Watch yourself, templar. I know this woman, and owe her, far more than I do you. Go home."

Rylock holds the queen's gaze, claiming with wordless audacity the power of the Church over all mortal leaders, but after a long moment, she nods.

"I'm not here for her," she admits grudgingly. The moment she steps toward Anders though, Rhyanon lashes out, _pushing _at the templar, catching Rylock – and Anders – unprepared.

"What the fuck are you thinking?!" he snaps, his voice shaking, as Rhyanon backs up her magical assault with a physical shove. She slams Rylock against the wall, unafraid, uncaring.

A wave of pain and energy crashes over her, forcing her to the ground, and one of the other templars twists her arm behind her back and slaps her, hard. Rhyanon twists, trying desperately to pull out of his grip, but she just isn't strong enough.

Anora watches, but makes no move to help. If anything, she seems slightly amused.

Rhyanon kicks backward, using the forward momentum to pull away from the templar. She wraps her arms around herself like a protective shield, and in this moment she looks every bit the fighter she is. "I invoke the Right of Conscription."

"What?" Anders manages to choke out.

Anora nods. The handful of templars in the room may not be aware of what exactly the words mean, but they know enough to understand the look that passes between the two women, the fragile tension in the room. They stop, waiting for Anora to order them, in no uncertain terms, to stand down before drag the Chantry into a diplomatic standoff that Ferelden can ill afford.

"This isn't over," Rylock growls, and Rhyanon isn't sure if the threat is meant for her or Anders or maybe – probably – both of them. But she follows the queen out of the too-large bedroom, and the other men in flame-and-sword armor go with her, with the one she'd assaulted casting a reluctant glance back at her.

Rhyanon breathes again. Anders catches her and wraps his arms around her, and she lets him. "Wow," he murmurs softly. His breath tickles the nape of her neck. She squirms in his grip so that she can turn around and look at him. He looks better, still bruised and too thin, with tangled hair and ill-kept stubble clinging to his cheeks, but she's seen him look far worse, and he's even smiling, though it doesn't reach his eyes, which just look tired and confused. She kisses him, without thinking, a ghostly touch of her lips to his. Anders pulls away, and the force of his motion _pushes _her away, a forced seperation that makes her reach out for him even more insistently, desperate for him to understand her, to not leave her alone. Tears sting her eyes before she can stop them.

"Melly..."

"What the hell are you doing here, Anders?" she snaps, forming her words into an accusation because what the hell else is she supposed to do?

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, with bated breath.

"No! Maker, no!" she batters at his weakened muscles with closed fists. "Don't leave me. Never, ever. You promised!"

Anders sighs, and sinks onto her bed – the mattress is soft, and too easy to fall into, it doesn't feel solid enough, nothing does. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to stop the world from spinning.

"We don't get to keep promises," he spits. The bitterness in his tone shouldn't surprise her, but it does, somehow.

"I do!" she yells right back. "I _did_."

"I know," he whispers, barely audible. Somehow it makes her feel guilty. "Fuck, Mel, even after all this time, you're still trying to protect _me_. You're still getting hurt because of me."

"I'm not hurt," she insists. It's true: she's smart, she fights with words when she can. Another skill she isn't supposed to have, it's own kind of magic. "I'm not hurt, I just _won._"

Temporarily, a fragile truce, a bargain that can be rescinded. But knowing not to trust any deal... that's just something else they learn.

"What's the Right of Conscription?" Anders asks softly.

"What?"

"They... listened, when you said that. It means... what? That you want to make me a Grey Warden? Like you?"

Rhyanon nods. "It'll keep you safe. At least, it's the only thing I can do. It'll keep you away from them."

"How do you know?" he asks. Suspicion and hope and fear all tangle up inside him.

Rhyanon just shrugs, not speaking because she doesn't need to. She curls up in his arms again, perfectly still, her eyes slipping closed – letting him catch her. _Because I'm still here_.

Anders sighs, running his fingers up and down her spine, listening to her breathing.

"You saved my life," she whispers, finally. The words break Anders out of his still-exhausted trance, his illusion of safety. He brushes a stray lock of blonde hair out of Mel's face, and looks into her eyes, deep blue like the lake they'd grown up blocked by and dreaming of. His thumb rests at her jaw line. Every instinct in his brain screams at him to run away before he hurts her, before she gets hurt because of him, before she demands something from him that he can't give. But he only nods.

"Yeah, 'course I did. I promised, didn't I?"

He leans in to nip at her lips with a kiss again, but she pulls away – as he'd known she would. Rhyanon has always been the only one who _forces _him to take life seriously, even when he _can't_.

"You said -" she starts, but he presses his finger to her lips to silence her, and shakes his head.

"I know what I said."

"No promises," she says. Her voice is soft, but hard.

"Dammit, Melly, I _know _what I said."

She only smiles, knowing she's got him trapped. It doesn't matter what he said. She knows what he _meant_.

"We're going to have to talk," he tells her, one of those moments where he takes advantage of the three year age gap between them, putting an obnoxious kind of authority into his voice, knowing she won't fight him on it. She nods. Still no words, but its own kind of promise, laced into the motion. He's more right than he knows.

"I know," she finally agrees. "Later. I promise."

They are used to long separations – Rhyanon might argue that they are more used to being apart than together; maybe she _will _argue that. But she's still afraid to let him out of her sight.

"Rhyanon..."

"I _promise_." She sighs, pressure creeping at the edges of her vision, and despite herself, she sags in his arms, before forcing herself to push him away, because he will ask questions she doesn't want to answer and bring back memories she desperately needs to forget. And she will do the same to him, because that is how they work. "Anders, I have to -" she stops again, unable to put into words everything that she knows that she doesn't. Instead, she simply waves halfheartedly, toward the half-opened doorway leading into the empty hall, the fortress, falling apart around them, and it's her job to put it back together. To keep _everyone _safe, while they both stand here talking around the certainty that they've never even been able to keep each other safe. They buy occasional reprieves sometimes, but it is not enough, and they are both marked by the scars and nightmares and unsaid words and fears that tally the costs of those long separations.

"You don't have to do this by yourself," he reminds her, sounding tired. "You're _not _by yourself."

His voice breaks slightly as he says it, and Rhyanon spins around, reaches out for his hand, squeezes it. "You're not either," she says simply. There is so much she has to do, out there in this fortress that she doesn't want, but in here she feels safe. "Anders, there's something I should tell you..." she trails off, fighting memories, seeing another man behind her eyelids, one who still doesn't know her as well as Anders does, and never will, one who cared too much about rules even as he pretended he didn't. But then, maybe that's true about everyone. Even her. She reminds herself that she's not supposedto tell him the truth about the Joining. It's a convenient excuse, even as she knows that rules have never stopped either one of them before. She sighs. She knows Anders can tell she's hiding something, because he squeezes her shoulder and pulls her back into the room, refusing to let go of her. "This isn't a free pass," she admits, in a low murmur. He shrugs. _Nothing ever is. _"You might _die._" She realizes, as she says it, that she is more afraid of that than he probably is.

He holds her gaze, his hands wrapped tightly around her waist, and he kisses her again, this time more passionately. He tastes like salt and lyrium and lemon and pine trees; he makes her dizzy, and Rhyanon can't remember when she started thinking of him _that way, _or if she always did but couldn't possibly let herself admit it. For the first time, she's not afraid he doesn't feel it back. Her breathing stutters as she starts to cry again. He wipes away her tears. "I trust you, Rhyanon," he whispers**.**

She shudders in his arms, and nods, because she can't bring herself to tell him that he shouldn't. Because she wants him to. She fucking misses this, more than she could ever have imagined or predicted.


	4. Chapter 4

They don't waste any time, getting the Joining started. They can't afford to wait. Rhyanon knows that Anders needs the protection that being a Warden will buy him, and that the people of Ferelden need the protection of the Wardens, more than just her. They call her Hero, assign her the status of a legend, but she damn well knows that she is just one person, and not nearly enough. She isn't even sure she wants to lead an army; she only knows that no one else can, or will, not until she finds someone who is better at this than she is. She wonders if this is how Duncan felt, those nights when they sat quiet around the fire on the way to Ostagar. She wonders if he'd known he was on his way to die, and she wonders if he was glad for it.

She thinks of Alistair's grief for the man she had barely known, the man who had saved them both, and familiar helpless anger tries to spark inside her belly, a keen edge quick to kindle now, quicker than it used to be. It's easier to reach for offensive magic now; she is beginning to forget what it was like to be locked down by the Chantry. But she can't forget it all. And she thinks that's a good thing. The darkspawn are a simple target, but they are not the only one. Rhyanon glances up, across the flickering firelight, to catch Anders' eye. Sheshouldn't feel nervous, he is not supposed to have to make her feel better, but it's too easy to fall back into the old roles. She shakes it off , hopefully quickly enough that the other recruits won't catch it. She turns to Seneschal Varel, pointedly ignoring Anders, pretending he's just another militia volunteer, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the danger he's in, even more pointedly refusing to remember that the danger of him dying isn't new. She swipes the cup out of Varel's hand more suddenly than she ought to, but the old man seems to take it in stride. He bows his head and lets her take the lead. Rhyanon takes a breath, steels herself, and forces herself to meet the eyes of the other warriors standing in front of them; all of them battle-hardened, and warned of the danger they face. She refuses to lie to them. The Joining will be a _choice_. Even Anders is allowed to back out, she will not force him to stay. She never could.

He doesn't back out though. His eyes flicker from hers to the cup in her hands, and he reaches out and grabs it before she can protest, and drinks it before either of them can change their mind, before she can even say the words she's supposed to say.

Rhyanon watches him slip into a not-entirely-conscious state – it's unnerving, like watching him suddenly fall into unnatural sleep, but he remains active; alert in the Fade. She can feel the sudden spike of energy wrapping itself around him – she's tempted to reach out and help, with healing magic of her own, but she doesn't. He isn't _hurt_, not exactly – his body, and the primal knowledge of his innate magic – is reacting to the taint that should not be part of him.

It's unsettling, watching the Joining from this perspective. She doesn't remember much about hers, not the actual event.

But he was there too; she smiles at the memory, a first Warden-dream that blended into a mage-dream, contact from far away, through the Fade, just as real and reassuring as if he'd been there with her, physically holding her hand. Knowing this, she kneels down next to him and runs her hand through his tangled hair and presses a kiss to his neck. She knows – because Alistair _told _her – that mages survive the Joining even less frequently than most potential Wardens do. But Anders will survive. He has to. That's what he does.

Rhyanon squeezes his hand, and she convinces herself that this few seconds of touch is enough. She stands up, surprisingly reassured by the open smirk behind Oghren's bushy red beard. She rolls her eyes and shoves the cup at him. Seneschel Varel seems taken aback by the lack of ceremony, but Rhyanon knows that these people understand how seriously she is taking this event. It is a battlefield communion, and Oghren ackowledges it as such by choking down the darkspawn blood without a word. He doesn't even belch. He too drifts into the active sleep that is too familiar to Rhyanon to be frightening – she wonders what it's like for the dwarf, who cannot touch the Fade. She wonders if that makes it easier or harder. She wonders if he's lonely, or afraid. She always is, when the templars steal her magic away from her.

She curls her hand more tightly around the chalice and holds it steady as she tells herself to be calm. She watches carefully over these men – her friends. Neither of them are seizing, and she can see them breathing with regular – if shallow – inhalations. She doesn't know how long it's supposed to take, but she remembers the night that she became a Warden – how sudden and loud and frightening it was when Ser Jory and Daveth the thief – a man who might even have become her friend – succumbed to the darkspawn taint. A quick glance at Seneschal Varel proves that he is not worried either. But then, she's never seen him look worried, not even when the Keep was actively being attacked. Maybe he doesn't ever get worried. Maybe he just hides it well, the way people tell her she does.

She turns back to her one last waiting soldier; a woman she trusts despite never getting to talk to her as much as she wanted to. Mhairi watches her with intent gray eyes. She looks determined, the same way she did when she alone went out to prepare Rhyanon for an ambush in a castle that was supposed to be safe ground. She reaches out for the chalice before Rhyanon can even ask her if she's ready or if she wants it. She sips it carefully, slowly, and in that motion Rhyanon recognizes someone else who has unconsciously assumed the ritual of Chantry services, after performing those same actions over and over. Maybe that's something else to ask about, Rhyanon begins to think, as she allows herself to breathe, her mind to wander, secure in the knowledge that her people are safe, from at least this threat, though there will be many more in the future.

And then Mhairi begins to choke, to seize. There are choking black tendrils surrounding her, not visible, but present all the same. They spike painfully within Rhyanon's blood. It's the taint, ripping her apart from the inside, but it rips Mhairi apart faster, claiming everything that made her human and gave her life.

There's no way of telling how much time has passed before Rhyanon becomes aware that she is crying. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps. She's fallen to her knees, beside Mhairi, who is unnaturally still. Mhairi is dead, and Rhyanon knows that she should have stopped it. She should never have let this happen. Whispers and screams threaten to tear her apart, she can't block them out, and she _tries_. Eventually, she becomes aware, through the hollow emptiness of apologies she can't voice, of someone's warm strong arms wrapping themselves around her.

Sbe fights her way out of that grip, thrashing and flailing, needing to vent all of her anger and fear. She sits there, panting and and shivering with a cold that isn't entirely physical.

Anders' warm fingers run up her arm, and she squirms as she pushes backward against the gentle touch of his magic: calm and sleep... He ignores her protests. She struggles to sort out half-formed thoughts, her brain trying to process time, fear and guilt at Mhari's death – _her responsibility –_ mixed with relief at Anders' quick recovery, awareness that _hours _might've passed. She looks around for Mhairi's body and doesn't see it. Her head swims and she pulls herself out of Anders' arms.

"Rhyanon," he whispers soothingly. "It's not your fault."

She wants to fight him on that too, she _tries _to, pushing against him, shoving, but Anders doesn't budge. He simply holds her, until she has no more energy left to expend.

His fingers trail through her hair. There is a lump in her throat, hot and wet, and she can feel the hot pinpricks of tears in her eyes. Anders kisses her, gently, on the forehead. He waits for her to relax, for her breathing to slow into a gentle rhythm. He holds her and he pointedly ignores the eyes watching them, even as he fights the surge of ingrained panic and the alarm bells ringing in his head that this is not allowed, that being close to him means that Rhyanon will get hurt. She's _already _hurt, isn't she?

Out of the corner of his eye, Anders can see the dwarf – Oghren – downing the contents of an impressively sized flask without seeming to notice or care what anyone else may think. Anders is very, very tempted to go and ask for some of that alcohol. His head feels as though it's being split open. There are flashes of light that throb in time with the pain. He's fairly certain that the world is spinning. His stomach heaves and protests, his body rages; wanting rest, needing relief. It's a sensation he recognizes all too well. The fragile barrier he can feel on the edges of his perception is just as familiar, and even more frightening.

He glances down, once again, at Rhyanon, his friend, who is sleeping with a peacefulness that he tells himself is only partially magically induced. She must need the sleep. He knows he needs it just as badly, yet he's used to fighting to keep himself alert and awake, and it seems his mind and body won't let him sleep. Not yet.

He curls up, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees as his eyelids begin to droop. He's vaguely aware of the Seneschal returning from... somewhere, lifting Rhyanon up and carrying her away. He thinks the man may have even asked him for permission to do so, and he must have granted it. He _wants_ to trust these people. He wants to trust Rhyanon. He wants, desperately, to believe her when she tells him that this place is safe for him, for both of them. He wants to believe in the promise she made a couple dozen lifetimes ago when she was just a thirteen-year-old kid, because obviously she still remembers it, and still believes in its importance. He wants to believe in it because she still does, even though they both should know better. A lot of things have changed since he was sixteen, but maybe, _maybe_, not this. Back then, she'd been the only real friend he ever had, and he thinks that this is more true than ever now.

_ The first time he'd been thrown into solitary, after none of the other punishments worked, he kept waiting for them to relent and let him go, but they didn't. Because he kept running his mouth off to keep himself sane; he fought so that he could at least tell himself that he wasn't the only one left bruised and bloody. In the end, what might have been a simple few days in a cell – not that that wouldn't have been bad enough – stretched out for nearly three weeks, until his quiet compliance was enough to convince the Knight Commander that he'd learned his lesson. He hadn't, the panic and despair that were planted in that __darkness just made him hate them more than he ever had, turned what had started out as a mischievious childhood into a life-or-death battle. _

_ They released him in the middle of the morning, when the halls of the Tower were nearly empty, with everyone in class, or practicing their sword moves or cleaning up the chapel or whatever the Chantry people did with their day. Anders wandered aimlessly for a bit, constantly looking over his shoulder, feeling simultaneously haunted and apathetic, unable to summon the motivation to care about much of anything. He'd slipped into the dorms without wanting to think about anything more immediate than right now. He didn't think he'd find anyone around when he got back, but when he stumbled over to his bunk, it was to find Melly curled up on it, with her arm wrapped tightly around the pillow he hadn't used for almost a month. She looked even younger than she actually was, sleeping peacefully. Her breath created soft waves in the worn fabric of the sheets._

_ He stared at her for what felt like years, wondering if he should wake her or just let her sleep. He wanted to be left alone and he wanted to be **not** left alone. For three weeks he didn't really talk to anyone except for screaming insults at his guards. He knelt down in front of the bed and touched her shoulder gently._

_ Rhyanon blinked her eyes open, instantly awake, charged with a panicky alertness that shifted to a confusing swirl of more relaxed – or at least, less threatened – emotions, the second she realized it was him. She was happy to see him, worried, embarrassed, afraid... Anders could pick up all of that, in her piercing stare and confused frown, in her body language, the way she pulled just slightly away from him. Things felt **different** between them, like somehow it had all changed. He forced a smile anyway, knowing that none of this new awkwardness was her fault. _

_ "No one would tell me anything," she whispered._

_ He sat down next to her, and forced a smile, pulling her close to him. "Of course not, stupid. There's nothing to tell. They locked me in a room, ignored me for a couple of days, and let me out again. Piece of cake, really."_

_ Rhyanon shrugged, kicking at the floor with the toe of her boot. "I know you think I'm just a little kid, but I'm not," she protested, forcing him to listen to her because no one else listened to either of them. "I want to help you. I can, you know. Please let me help you. I..." _

_ When did she start actually crying? How did that happen?_

_ "I'm okay, Melly," Anders insisted softly. His voice was almost calm. _

_ "I'm not okay," she admitted. _

_ Anders sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. "Can I make you feel better?" he asked instead._

_ "I don't know." _

_ "Don't get in trouble because of me," Anders warned. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head, that stubborn fire. _

_ "It's kinda too late for that. I've been getting in trouble because of you since we met. I couldn't stop now if I wanted to. And I don't want to."_

_ Anders almost laughed at that, because he knew that what she referred to as trouble was nothing, not compared to what the templars had already proven they were willing to do to keep him in line. The thought that they might do anything even close to her, the thought that they might do something worse... it terrified him. It made his stomach hurt. His head spun. "Don't be stupid, Melly," he begged her. "You don't help anyone by putting yourself in danger. You especially don't help me."_

_ She shook her head, and Anders couldn't help but laugh a little inside, because he may have been on the verge of giving up, but she wouldn't let him. She could be stubborn enough for the both of them when he needed her to be, and he loved her for it. "I'm not stupid," she muttered. "I don't want you putting yourself in danger either. I want you to stay! And I hate this place!"_

_ Her fingers clenched into a fist. A few years earlier, she'd have been throwing a tantrum. But she'd been in the Circle long enough to be able to ball up all of her fear and frustration and rage and keep it contained. She is almost scarily calm and controlled. At least on the outside._

_ "I know," Anders replied. "I hate it here too. But it is safer for you in here than out there, believe me."_

_ "I do." _

_ The admission was immediate, and Rhyanon looked slightly surprised and unsettled by that. Anders sighed. The sleeve of his robe slid up his arm a little when he moved, and Rhyanon reached out to brush her fingers along his bare skin where bruises stood out in dark mottled colors._

_ "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snapped, pulling away as though he'd been scalded, breathing heavily in response to the overwhelming wash of pain piercing through his whole body as an active spell enveloped him, flooding his system with mana he hadn't been allowed to touch for twenty whole days._

_ Rhyanon immediately shut down her magic and froze. "I'm helping you!" she demanded._

_ Anders clenched his fists and swallowed the sharp retort already on his tongue. He knew she meant well. She couldn't possibly know that she hurt him more than she helped, with her feeble healing attempts. How in the hell had she even learned that anyway?_

_ "Don't," he forced out through gritted teeth. "Just... don't."_

_ Rhyanon curled away from him and looked down at the worn floor under their feet. "Okay," she whispered. Even then, she'd do whatever he said, even when it killed her, and they both knew it. Her quiet acceptance of his anger made him feel more guilty than any of the templar's punishments ever could. Looking at her cowering at the edge of his bunk almost made him willing to promise. To stay. It has never been her fault that he is so fucked up, and he knew that she wouldn't ever stop clinging to him no matter how many times he'd told her not to. He stretched out his hand for her. "Come here."_

_ She crawled into his lap and he wrapped his arm around her and held her tight, until she started squirming. "It's not fair, you know," she demanded. "You always try to make me feel better, but I can't help you. I want to help you. Just tell me what to do!"_

_ She just won't. let. go._

_ "Just be here," Anders tells her simply. "That's enough."_

_ "I'm not going anywhere," Melly promised. As though she had a choice, as if either of them did. She tilted her head back to look up at him, and he could feel the furious intensity of her emotions. "But I can't just pretend like everything's okay!" she snapped. "I try," she added, more quietly. Anders had to strain to hear her. "But I can't." _

_ She pulled away from him, just enough to feel like she could breathe, and Anders realized that he was holding his breath too. "You know the little kids cry, right?" she asked softly. "All the time. When you were... when I couldn't sleep, I heard them. Every night. I hate it here. But I can't go anywhere."_

_ "Melly, please..." He shook his head. Of course he knew what she was talking about. How could he not? But what was he supposed to say? He couldn't make things better for her. He couldn't even make things better for himself. This place had always been too much for him to handle, since before they ever met._

_ "You helped me," Rhyanon demanded. "When I was eight, when I was crying, you helped me. Why?"_

_ **Why?** She had to **ask**. Anders frowned. His head felt like it was underwater, but he somehow managed to keep talking. "Because I knew how it felt," he admitted. "Because you needed a friend." _

_ "Yeah but why me? I'm not special." _

_ She kept asking. Kept pushing. Anders wanted nothing more than to just be able to sleep, to stop thinking. To escape for a few minutes or a few hours, to not have to deal with a thousand heavy questions he would never be able to answer. "You are!"_

_ The words were out before he could even think about them. He blamed it on tiredness, confusion, his overall miserable state. But he couldn't take it back. _

_ Rhyanon shivered slightly and wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees. If Anders had to guess, he'd bet that no one had ever said that to her before. She's a mage, just like he is. Something broken. Someone nobody wants. _

_ "I'm special because of you," she replied sullenly. "**Only** because of you. Following you around all the time is the only reason anybody here even pays attention to me."_

_ "You don't actually believe that bullshit, do you?" _

_ For someone so smart, this little girl has always been stupidly blind about what's really important. But could he really blame her? "You **are** special," he insisted gently. "You're special **because** you follow me around, **despite** them paying attention! You don't give a damn what anyone thinks of me. You're my friend, when no one else wants to be."_

_ She slowly uncurled herself from her safe little ball, and found him again. She leaned against his arm. "You know I'll never stop being your friend, right?" she whispered. "No matter what. Never ever."_

The heavy weight of uncertainty pounds against Anders' skull along with the echoing whispers of words that feel to fragile to last. They keep him awake even through the nausea, the pain, and the utter exhaustion. He manages to stumble to his feet and pull himself along the already-familiar route he'd taken that first day, toward the place where Rhyanon fought and he fucked up and barely managed to save her. Up to the roof, toward the sky. The Keep still feels as though it's crumbling beneath his feet, but the cool breezes comfort him. He tells himself he doesn't feel the pain as strongly, but that may be wishful thinking.

The half-awake dreams and images and sensations flickering through his mind are different from anything he's ever touched before, and that's unsettling. He's not afraid of them, not really, although some logical part of him is aware that he should be. There is a constant urgency pressing down on him, a sense of threat, warnings of an invasion that consumes the whole of the world, leaving behind nothing but a wasteland, a burning emptiness. He recognizes the unique signature of the darkspawn, he's seen and felt it, through the Blight-decayed landscape of Ferelden. But it scares him less than the certainty of pain and inprisonment that awaits him if the templars ever catch up to him again. _When _they catch up. It's always when, and he knows that. The darkspawn scare him less than the corpses Rhyanon rescued him from. Being a Grey Warden – he turns the unfamiliar words over his tongue – scares him less than the monster he's already become.

* * *

**THE BIG NOTES**

First things first: yes, this story will have flashbacks. I'm still trying to decide how I feel about that (cautiously excited?). I've been trying to figure out the best way to tell this story since January, if you're talking about writing it seriously, and since 2011, if you mean when the first pieces started forming themselves. And I'm _still_ trying to figure out the best way to tell it. So trust me, if you're frustrated by the flashbacks... I am too. You can blame Rhyanon. She likes to be subtly infuriating toward authority figures (and she counts me, as her writer, as one of those). That means telling things out of order, witholding vital information until she feels like revealing it (thus forcing me to retcon her history), and laughing while I struggle with verb tenses.

**On Fitting This Story Into My Headcanon: **I think the key words for this story are: "no prior continuity." Not "no prior knowledge," as that would not be correct. Just as a Batman or Superman starting over at Issue #0 does not mean that nothing before has value, readers coming into this story having read some or all of what I've scrawled out about Anders' (and company's) story in the past two years will recognize recurring themes and get a jump on references, connections, and subtle or unsubtle nods. Yet I _want _this story to serve as a feasible entrance point for new readers too.

Part of figuring out the best way to tell this story was realizing almost instantly that I could not be tied down to anything I wrote last year or two years ago, before I really got to _know _these characters the way I know them now. Rhyanon and Anders both overwrite previously written "facts" when they talk to me now. The things I knew about them then were true then, the more complete stories I know now are even more true now.

So, if you've read things before and notice glaring inconsistencies, you _should_. And if you haven't read anything yet, welcome! I'm glad you're here.

_**This chapter in particular owes much special thanks to **_**Acherubis, ****_who helped immensely " a couple dozen lifetimes ago" (or this spring), in figuring out the logistics of Anders and Rhyanon's complicated dynamic. If anyone other than me might fully grasp how frustrating it is to write a pairing based on separation, it's her. _**

_**Thanks also to **_**Suilven****_, another of my best friends. Last year we talked a lot about magnets, when it comes to relationships with Anders. If Anders and Rylock are magnets that pull together, then Anders and Amell are magnets that push apart._**


	5. Chapter 5

The sun is already well up in the sky by the time Rhyanon wakes, haunted by nightmares that linger clearly even in the bright light of day. She pulls on clothes without really seeing, and tries to shake the feeling that the sunlight is too harsh, streaming through a bedroom window she doesn't remember leaving open. She'll never admit it out loud, but the dim shadows of the Keep's internal corridors feel more comfortable to her. Her eyes adjust to the relative darkness easily, and the echoes of her booted feet on stone floors feel familiar. She scowls to herself, and picks up her pace before she can fall into this familiar trap of self-loathing.

The common room is crowded with people and the smells of food. She hovers in the doorway for a moment, just watching. The soldiers here move with brisk efficiency, occasionally shooting questioning glances in her direction. She knows she'll have to talk to them eventually. "Soon," she mumbles, under her breath, and she nods, confirming her own order. Soon.

Her eyes scan the crowd and focus on tangled blonde hair and a glittering earring, before she's even aware that she was looking for him. She tells herself that she _wasn't _looking for him, not in particular, but the truth is that it relieves her more than she wants to admit to see Anders sitting at that table with that familiar cocky grin on his face.

She leans back against the doorframe and watches him shovel down the simple breakfast the Keep's cooks have managed to provide for those people still left here. His food barely touches his plate before he inhales it and reaches for more. Rhyanon hovers, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting to admit that she's afraid to talk to Anders. Her head hurts. She hides in the corner of the room until she's _forced _into moving, by Seneschal Varel, who practically wields his mounds of paperwork as a weapon. He hovers over her and drones on and on about costs and numbers and ancient defense plans, as though she knows what any of it means, as though she's capable of _caring_, right now.

"Shut up!" she finally snaps.

Varel raises an eyebrow in disapproval but Rhyanon plows right ahead. "A woman _died_!" she insists. "So you'll forgive me if I don't feel like dealing with your petty beareaucratic bullshit!"

There is a hushed silence in the room, and all eyes turn toward her. Rhyanon ignores them.

Oghren belches loudly, and she smiles a little, on the inside. Leave it to the dwarf to make her look good by comparison. It's not the first time he's helped her out in situations involving noble titles and diplomacy, situations she'd rather avoid. And Anders meets her eyes as everyone else slowly returns to their meal and conversations. She sits down across from him without thinking, and he smiles at her. She can see the tiredness in his eyes, and he must be able to feel hers, because he squeezes her hand.

"I'm fine," she insists, before he can even ask, but he only shakes his head.

"I can't fix everything. You must be... hurting." He reaches out to trace her ribs, probing with careful magic.

Rhyanon inhales sharply. "Ow."

She hadn't let herself feel the physical pain left over from the battle. Her dreams were bad enough. But now that he's pointed it out she's aware of exactly how much magic can't fix. Her muscles burn with a deep ache, tender brusises limit her movement. Her breathing turns shallow as sharp needles from her still-healing broken bones stab at her, pain sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes. Anders' squeezes her hand more tightly, and when she looks up at him he's glaring at her with a familiar mixture of anger and worry. "Mhari's death wasn't your fault," he whispers softly. "You know that, don't you?"

Rhyanon nods. "You didn't know her," she says evenly. There's a question in there, maybe, or an accusation.

Anders sighs. He rubs her shoulder, kneading the tension out of her muscles. "You didn't either," he points out. Rhyanon holds her breath and pulls away, staring at the wooden table. She studies the swirls and deep lines in the grain.

"I know too many people who've died," she admits bitterly.

Anders doesn't reply, except in pointed silence that seems to strech on forever. "What am I doing here, Rhyanon?" he finally asks.

Her eyes flicker toward his. "I told you -"

"That being a Grey Warden would keep me safe," he supplies. "Yeah, I know." He doesn't _believe _her, but he knows. "But what am I supposed to _do_?"

Rhyanon shrugs. "Fight darkspawn, I guess."

A smiles curls at the edges of Anders' mouth. A quiet chuckle escapes. "That's not me. You've always been the fighter."

Rhyanon narrows her eyes and shakes her head. "You could be too. If you wanted to." It's the first time she's ever had reason to think he might _not _want to.

He shakes his head. "No, I can't," he whispers, very softly. He shoves another large chunk of bread into his mouth and doesn't look at her again.

Across from him, Rhyanon kicks the table leg, listening to the slow, rhythmic thumps that echo back. And then she glares at him. She grabs his arm and practically drags him out to the practice yard.

"You're _hurt_," Anders points out, but Rhyanon just shakes her head. That's part of fighting too, maybe the most important part: keeping yourself alive even when you're already weakened. She knows that Anders isn't good enough at battle magic. Maybe he knows it too. His shields are decent, but he doesn't pay enough attention. He's going to get himself hurt. Maybe killed. And she's _mean, _forcing him to see it.

She deliberately acts like their worst tower trainers. She throws attacks at him, constantly. Fire and lightning. Physical weapons. She pushes him against the wall. It feels good to let loose. _This is what she does, _and Anders knows it too. He always has, since they were kids, since the first time he saw her fight. In the tower, they just kept hitting you until you drained yourself or "won" somehow, finding a way to own the situation. The meaner ones kept pummeling you even after you were beyond spent, left with no mana, too exhausted to hold up against wet paper, let alone trained armored soldiers with weapons. There were a lot of shouted insults, even more physical blows. Rhyanon is one of the few who could win, almost as often as she lost. And they trained her even harder because of it. He healed her _a lot_. More than he wanted to. He knows he can't win against her, any more than he could win against the templars who insisted that what they did was for his own good. But he fights back as hard as he can.

He does pretty well in the beginning. But this kind of magic needs a different kind of concentration and more mana to make it work. He can't manage both for too long. He's rapidly draining his energy. Before long, he's just concentrating on keeping his defenses up. His back is against the wall and he feels trapped. Caged. He's breathing hard, trying to find a way to make her stop. He won't ask her to, though. Not yet. He's stubborn. He doesn't want to admit his weakness. But his fear is getting the upper hand. _He needs her to stop._ Now. He gathers what little mana he has left and throws it all out against her in one heavy, explosive blast. He falls to his knees. Completely exhausted. Dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"Come on, Anders! The darkspawn aren't going to let you stop!"

The taunt makes him angry. and even more scared. He grits his teeth, and tries to get to his feet again, but his muscles are trembling so hard he can't get up. He curses under his breath, his hands claw at the wall, scrambling for support. He feels dizzy, everything spins. The world is strangely out of focus. He feels helpless. The stone under his fingers feels slick. Like the walls in that cell. _No._ He doesn't want to go there.

Rhyanon is tired too. Slowing down. He's stronger than her when it comes to raw power, and that's what that hit was. But she's winning. A smile lights up her face as she goes in with the training sword. He's too dependent on magic. It's a weakness. "Come on, Anders!" she yells. "You stupid, stubborn bastard. Push me back!"

He moans when she stabs him with the blunted weapon. It would hurt, for sure, but not badly enough to justify this reaction. She's seen him take a lot worse. "No," he pleads. "No, please don't." Anders throws his arm up in front of his face and squeezes his eyes shut.

_She's seen him take a lot worse. _Rhyanon stops, instantly. Her stomach suddenly hurts. "I won't hurt you," she tells him softly. She throws the sword away, cursing herself for not thinking. For hurting him. "Anders, look at me." He doesn't react, just kneels there in front of her, trembling. He's trapped in his memories, still waiting for the templars to circle in on him. His fingers still claw against the wall. Rhyanon grabs his wrist gently before he starts ripping up his fingers on the rough stone. Her head pounds. Her stomach twists. "Hey, come on, Anders. You're safe. It's just me." She sends a little bit of mana towards him, a wave of rejuvenating energy.

A strangled cry escapes from him when he feels the touch of her spell. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognizes the signature, and a new wave of panic floods through him. _What is she doing here?_ His mind screams out desperate warnings, of impending danger. Pain and punishment. _She is not supposed to be here._ This is his fault, this is all on him. "Let her go! Don't hurt her," he cries, and he begins to fight against her hold.

Rhyanon keeps her arm locked around him, blocking out the words she can only just make out. She doesn't _want _to understand what he's saying. She can't handle that right now. She needs to stop him from hurting himself. "Anders. Stop!" Her voice shakes. There's a buzzing at the back of her brain. She can feel him trying to gather mana, something, anything, but he's drained, and not cognizant enough to latch on to what she's attempting to feed him. "Anders, I'm okay," she insists, keeping her voice pitched low and calm to contrast with the pure panic she hears in his. _Maker, what the hell happened to him?_

A year in a cell, that's what. A year in a cell in the tower that was enough of a nightmare for her, even only half-knowing.

"I'm okay," she repeats. She says it over and over. She says it for herself and for him. "You win," she whispers, as she sends out another pulse of rejuvenation magic. Her eyes close and her breathing slows, and she concentrates on washing those slow and steady waves of energy and comfort over both of them, until she's completely tapped out.

It helps. Her voice along with the spells guide him back into reality. He's shaking, still breathing hard, but whatever demons he was fighting have apparently faded away, leaving him back in control.

"Mel?" His voice is hoarse, unsteady.

"Yeah." She feels sick. She fumbles around until she finds some water and hands it to him to drink. "I didn't think. I didn't..." she trails off. What is she supposed to say anyway?

Anders pulls her close and kisses her, relieved and desperate.

Rhyanon freezes, in disbelief and confusion. And fear. There's still that instinct inside of her that screams that this will only hurt them. Why is he kissing her when she basically just tortured him? Why is he kissing her at all?! They _don't_.

She feels dizzy. Tired. This is too much to deal with. His hands wander over her arms, her hips, her back. "Anders, what are you doing?" she chokes out. She doesn't pull away though. She doesn't want him to stop. _What is wrong with her?_ Why doesn't she want him to stop? She shivers a little bit in his arms. Her throat tightens.

"Don't know," he breathes against her lips. "But it feels good."

She pulls away just a little bit. Just to get a little space. A little breathing room. It's hard to think. "Anders, I just... " she stops talking. She is _so confused_. He's right, it feels good. Why can't she let herself feel good? Why shouldn't she?

He frowns a little. he doesn't understand why she pulls back. He wants her closer. His hand traces the curve of her neck, with fluttering fingers that barely touch her skin. He likes the way his name sounds coming from her. Breathless. Hoarse.

"You're not thinking straight," she demands. She could be talking to herself just as much as she's talking to him.

"Hmmm..." he murmurs. She's right, he's not. Because he doesn't want to. And he doesn't want her to think either. His lips run along her jaw, light, teasing.

She pulls away, and pushes him back a little. "Stop."

He lets go of her then, frustrated and hurt. It felt right to him, and he knows she felt it too.

He presses the palm of his hand to his forehead. His head hurts. He's tired. Tired and scared and frustrated and angry.

Rhyanon sighs. It hurts to breathe. She's tired and achy and worried about him. Really worried. She drinks some more water, tries to calm herself down. She's still jittery from the fight. And guilty. "How bad are the dreams?" she asks cautiously. She knows that's what's got her so keyed up: the intense, too-real visions that plague what little sleep she manages to get.

"You tell me," Anders retorts sharply. "You've got the same." The sudden change of topic doesn't sit too well with him. They were just about to... whatever... and now she's asking about his dreams? What the fuck?

"Fine," Rhyanon spits back, just as harshly. She holds his eyes and won't let him look away, won't let him avoid her. Not anymore. "Mine have whip cracks in them," she tells him evenly. "Your blood on my fingers. Screaming and fighting and being held back. Being held down. A hand over my mouth. Darkness..." There's more that she won't tell him. She doesn't want to go there. She bites her lip to stop herself from talking.

Her words cut straight into Anders' heart. Like a knife. Like a razor blade. Fresh tears form in his eyes and he wraps his arms around himself, huddling into a ball. "Don't," he begs her. He is on the edge of falling apart again. "Don't go there."

"I can't just forget about it!" she yells. "Maybe you can, but I can't!" Rhyanon knows she shouldn't be mad at him. It's not his fault. But if he wasn't here then maybe she could forget!

Anders just shakes his head. He doesn't even flinch when she yells at him. Well, that's a start. "I don't forget," he tells her. "Nothing. Never."

The seriousness with which he says it scares Rhyanon. "I always thought you just said that to get out of studying," she says shakily. She doesn't want it to be true. That's way too scary.

Anders laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I wish it was that simple," he sighs. "But it isn't. I remember every detail. Always."

Her stomach hurts. Everything. Always. She closes her eyes. "What's the first thing you remember about me?" she finally asks. It's a stupid question. But maybe a safe one. And she _is _curious.

Anders looks up. A smile forms on his lips, tender and affectionate. "Your eyes," he softly says. "You were so scared, but when I tried to comfort you, you had that expression in your eyes, this... fire. You were so stubborn, even then. You'd been there for barely a week, and you were already getting in trouble for other people. For me."

It's how they'd first met, when she jumped in to protect him from a senior enchanter who took way too much pleasure in bullying the younger children he was supposed to be teaching. It only resulted in both of them getting the cane, but Anders healed her that night, obviously, and after that, they'd been inseparable.

He smiles at the memory, a smile that grows when she smiles too. Shy and hesitant, uncertain, but it _is_ a smile. He squeezes her hand. It's not all bad memories that they share. He needs her to realize that. "I also remember that bird you carved into the post of your bunk with a needle. Maker knows where you got it. You did it at night when you thought no one was watching."

"You saw that?"

"I saw a lot." Too much, really. The little things that everyone else forgets, that's what gets him through.

"I thought it would keep me safe or something," Rhyanon says softly. The hard edge in her voice makes it clear she doesn't think that anymore. She shrugs. "I dunno. It took my mind off the templars for a while." It took her mind off him. She liked to pretend it could help her sleep through those weeks and months when he was in solitary and outside her reach.

"It was a raven," Anders continues, squeezing her hand. "The beak had a crook from the knothole in the wood. three tail feathers. The claws looked sharp, like tiny needles."

Wow. She can barely remember it that clearly. She stopped looking at a long time ago, when she stopped believing in good magic or real protection. She hasn't thought about it in years.

Not _quite _true, whispers the voice in her head. She'd found it again, when she returned to the tower. With Alistair. She bites down on the inside of her jaw, so hard it hurts.

"You gave me those drawings," she whispers instead. "Trees. And sunsets, and the lake. All the time, when I was little. Then you stopped."

"I couldn't give them to you anymore. I started drawing on stone, not on paper." He doesn't know why he tells her that. He never intended to. But it feels right.

Rhyanon looks up, slightly startled. He's never said a single thing about solitary. Never, no matter how often she asked. She smirks. "So you drew pictures for the templars instead of for me, huh? I think I'm a little jealous." Yeah. He's not the only one who can play things off light. Sometimes.

He snickers, but it lacks enthusiasm. His fingers are still wrapped tightly around hers. "I would have preferred to draw them for you. The ones I made for you were... nicer. You always liked the sunsets most. Orange and red and blue. The silhouette of trees on one side, the lake on the other. Birds in the sky. I remember them all. Every single one."

"I wish I did," Rhyanon tells him honestly. "I remember... listening.***** And carving numbers in the rock. That little alcove above the courtyard. You used to take me there because the window was broken, so I could hear the birds. That's how I knew about it. But I don't remember what the birds sound like anymore." She only remembers the bad stuff. It haunts her. If she could remember everything like he does maybe at least she could hold onto the good stuff too.

"Numbers? What numbers?"

She just shrugs. "I saw a lot, too. Heard a lot."

_Mine have whip cracks in them..._

"I told you not to watch!" He yells at her, as comprehension dawns. "Never!"

"I didn't. I closed my eyes."

His eyes are wide with pure horror. "You listened. That crack in the glass..."

She nods.

He struggles to his feet. His legs are still shaky and he has to lean against the wall for support for a moment, but he can't sit still anymore. "Damn you, Rhyanon! Why?"

"Because it was you. Because I didn't want you to be alone."

"I was alone! I _am_ alone!"

"No you're not!" She jumps up too.

"I am," he repeats, very calm. "Loneliness is all I know. Alone in a cell. Only silence. Around me. Inside me. Nothing but emptiness. They cut you off of the Fade. There's nothing. Just me."

That terrifies her. His words sink to the bottom of her stomach, they scream in her head. She's been warded before, for a few hours. Once, a few days. It's the worst thing in the world. Constant empty pressure, desperation. It's like not being able to breathe, like forgetting how to touch and see... losing all your dreams and senses. How is he still standing here? How has he not lost his mind completely?

She shakes her head and grabs his hand, squeezes it tight. "There's me, too. I'm never gonna stop being your friend, remember?"

"I remember. It's hard to believe though. Why would you want to be my friend? It's my fault... everything bad that happened to you. All because of me."

He touches her shoulder, lightly, hesitant. He traces the scar cutting sharply over the curve of her skin, following its contours perfectly even without seeing it.

Rhyanon shivers. Anders _shouldn't _remember that. He shouldn't have been coherent enough to remember it. That was the point. But the look in his eyes is enough to prove that assumption wrong. He was slipping, true enough, but both of them know that the boundary between unconsciousness and awareness isn't as clear cut for them as for normal people. Usually, the things that happen at that edge are the clearest and most real sensations they'll ever know. The transient nature of the Fade makes it easy for those lines to blur, and pull back realities from a long time ago as easily as if they were happening _right now_. As soon as Anders' fingers brush that scar, she can _feel _it.

_ There is a flash of white, blinding agony that overwhelms her suddenly. She gasps and struggles to get control of her breathing. Tears sting her eyes in an uncontrolled reaction, and she chokes out a whimpering cry. _

_ "Get out of the way, girl," the templar snarls. _

_ Rhyanon is vaguely aware of the blood pouring down her arm and staining her robes. Her head is ringing as she tries to compensate for the pain. Time seems to be moving incredibly slowly. The adrenaline pounds through her system. She can't process the question. She can't process anything but pain. And the threatening smirk on the face of the templar holding the whip. He shrugs, and raises the lash again. _

_ "Don't much matter to me, mageling," he sneers._

_ He's going to hit her again. Panic begins to overwhelm her as she recognizes this. She starts to scramble to her feet, but before she can get anywhere, armored arms wrap around her. She cries and thrashes uselessly. Her fists pound down against the smooth steel, but the templar holds her still. _

_ And she's forced to watch, helplessly, as the punishment continues. Slowly. Deliberately. The whip cuts deeply and the templar is enjoying it. He flashes her a grin, and laughs. And the templar holding her won't let her break away. _

_ Eventually, the lashes stop. She lost the count a long time ago. It might be less than thirty. It might be more. It doesn't matter. She twists and struggles out of the templar's grasp, without caring for the consequences. She sees nothing but Anders, limp and bleeding, left alone and barely conscious in the dirt as the templars untie him and let him fall. _

_ The red stains her robes, but she doesn't notice. She knows her touch must hurt him, but he doesn't seem to care. He's too far gone even to pull away from the pain she must be causing. His breathing comes in sporadic shallow gasps. She can't help him – not really, not enough – not with the wards pressing down on her consciousness, carefully woven by the templars before the punishment even started to ensure that Anders felt every ounce of pain. It doesn't stop her from trying, maybe a little bit will be enough._

_ She barely notices the pain in her own arm anymore. It doesn't seem to matter. She bites her lip and wraps him carefully in what little flickers of healing magic she can manage. Anders stirs and moans, and his eyes flutter open. His hazy focus lingers on the raw gash across her shoulder, and Rhyanon can feel him tensing up. She squeezes his hand and shakes her head as her other hand brushes the tangles of sweaty hair out of his eyes._

_ "Go to sleep, Anders," she whispers. His eyelids drift closed again, his breathing relaxes. She can't tell if it's because of her minor talents at healing or his own. The flow of mana comes easier to her now, easier than it should. It feels like a heavy blanket has been lifted from her shoulders. She's aware that the antimagic field is gone – the templars have dropped their ward. She frowns, as suspicion and worry heighten her senses and claw at her stomach. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She tells herself to calm down, and she manages, a little. She replaces worry with anger as Anders stiffens, feeding off of her heightened emotions. _

_ "Everything's fine," she lies, refusing to let go of him. _

_ He whines a little, pulling away from her touch. "I know," he mumbles. His words are slurred and barely audible. "Love you," he whispers._

_ The confession hits her like an electric spark, through every nerve. It paralyzes her. It's enough to unleash the tears she's been struggling so hard to hold back. She wipes them away, reflexively, but it does nothing. "Don't say it unless you mean it," she warns him. But he's slipped out of consciousness again. The deep cuts of the whip still mark him. Rhyanon shivers and sits, still and desperate and crying uncontrollably on the hard-packed dirt. She wraps her arms around her knees and runs her fingers through his hair. She lets her fingers press close to his skin, close enough to feel the warmth of his body and the thrum of his heartbeat._

_ Irving pulls her away gently. She fights him half-heartedly, but she cannot summon the energy to resist as he tuts over her blood-stained robes and tear-streaked face. _

_ "I need to make sure he's okay."_

_ "He's..." Irving stops. "You've done what you could," he reminds her. "He'll heal up on his own, now."_

_ "It isn't fair!" Rhyanon cries, though she knows it's a useless protest. And she is aware, even as she says it, of the all-too-familiar sensation of someone watching her. She spins back around, to see the same young templar who had shielded her through the last of the punishment carefully studying her. Rage threatens to overwhelm her, but she is too exhausted to fight. _

_ "You dropped the ward," she whispers. The templar just nods. He doesn't apologize or offer any sort of justification. He walks away without looking at her, and that fills Rhyanon with a bizarre sense of satisfaction. It's the way things should be. She needs someone to be angry at, she can't afford confusion when it comes to the templars. She doesn't want this one being nice to her, not even a little bit._

_ A year. Rhyanon curls her hand into a fist and pulls herself out of Irving's arms. _

_ Some of the other templars haul Anders roughly to his feet, shoving him toward the dungeon cell that will be his home for the next countless eternity. _

That was the last time she saw him, before she escaped and he didn't. The first and the last time they ever met in the tower, she was attempting to shield him from a punishment he didn't deserve. Trying to help, and failing. No wonder he doesn't believe her when she tells him that this time is different.

* * *

***** Props to **Acherubis **again this chapter, for both general and concrete reasons. Much of the dialogue Anders and Rhyanon share in this chapter evolved from the bull sessions where we attempted to hash out the finer details of their shared history and the specifics of what they'd both remember from Tower days. Way back in March, she shot me an e-mail saying "I'm pretty sure your characters are talking to me. Can I borrow them for a minute?" I said sure, and she knocked out **Twenty Scars**. Which I read, and I was immediately like: "Holy shit. You're right. That happened." It locked itself into my headcanon permanently, an immutable fixed (and really important) point on the timeline, even though I'd known nothing about it until she wrote it down. It is to this day one of the most bizarre feelings I've ever had, participating in this playground of community storytelling. It's moments like these that keep me here.


	6. Chapter 6

"You don't have to be nice to me," Anders comments smoothly, slipping into place beside Rhyanon, leaning against the battlements at the roof of the Keep. She spins around, and he notices the way her muscles suddenly tense. Her fingers tighten against the stone. He pretends not to see it. The carefree smirk plays across his features for a few heartbeats longer, then he sighs, leaning forward, resting his weight on his elbows. He stares out at the night sky, pretends he's talking to himself, like she's not even there. "Look, I know the other day was not my best moment. I just..." he shakes his head. "Can we just pretend it never happened?"

"Isn't that what we always do?"

"Melly..." Maker, why is she making this so _difficult_? "You were right, you know. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm gonna get someone killed. You can't afford that."

"You _want _me to kick the crap out of you?"

"I want you to stop treating me like I'm broken!"

Rhyanon smiles at that, and relaxes. "I missed you," she tells him.

Anders grins too, knowing how familiar this is. It feels good to be the stupid, stubborn, damn-the-consequences boy again. Somehow, he's slowly begun to believe her when she says this place is safe. He _feels _good out here, under the stars, with the wind blowing through the trees. He can smell something sweet in the air, some kind of honeysuckle, mixing with the smell of the animals and dirt. He can feel the charge of mana, primal elements close enough to touch. It invigorates him.

"I missed you too, you know."

Rhyanon nods, but she only looks at him over her shoulder. There's a little bit of space between the two of them that she still won't close. A little bit of distance, coldness, separation. It's her fault, she keeps pushing him away. Because she misses more than Anders. She misses things that she can't ever tell him about, things he's never known. She can't sleep without hearing Alistair's laugh. She can't get the image of his death out of her mind. The pain of his absence is sharp in her stomach, constant and agonizing.

She kicks the base of the wall, traces the lines between the stones. She doesn't know what to say. Anders catches the restless hand that's painting patterns on the stone between them. "I missed you," he repeats, looking her in the eye this time, his voice steady, determined. "You don't know how much."

That just makes her feel even worse. She tries to pull away. "You wouldn't if you knew..." she stops. The words are already out and she can't pull them back. There are things she's never told him. Even from Tower days. She's been keeping secrets for longer than he knows. It was only possible because he kept running from her, but now she's taken away that option.

He lets go of her when he feels her trying to get away. Her reaction hurts, but he tries to ignore the feeling. He knows that kind of reaction. He's done it so many times before with her. "If I knew what?" he asks, as calmly as he can manage.

"The kind of person I really am."

"And what kind of person would that be, Melly?"

"The kind of person who kills people without caring."

There's so much anguish in her voice. She doesn't really believe that, does she? She's the most caring, compassionate, lovable person he ever knew. The fact that she sounds so guilty when she utters those words is proof enought that it's not true, that she _does_ care.  
"What happened, Mel? Tell me what happened to make you think that."

"You hear what they call me, Anders. Commander. General. I fought a war. And I survived when almost no one else did. Denerim was decimated. A whole city, just... gone." A whole city, and one person in particular. "Those people followed my orders!" she cries. "Armies listened to me, like I knew what I was doing. Who the hell am I to tell people to throw their lives away for me? I was supposed to die in the tower!"

She definitely was not supposed to say that last part out loud, but she wasn't thinking enough to stop herself.

Her words scare him, more than he thought they would. And there are so many questions he wants answered, so many loose ends that need to be connected. But that last part scares him the most: _She was supposed to die in the tower._

"Why?" He's not able to utter more than that one word. His thoughts are too incoherent for anything else.

She could lie. that's her first thought, and _that_ scares her more than anything. That is exactly the point she's making. She is the kind of person whose _first instinct_ is to lie. The truth is equally complicated, though. There is a tangled web of things she doesn't want to tell him. They all lead to each other.

"Because I used blood magic."

She says it like a challenge. She can't go on pretending that she's an innocent kid. She _isn't_. And he should know the truth about her. He should get away from her. She's dangerous. She doesn't deserve his trust.

"Say that again," Anders whispers, after a long moment. The words are barely audible.

"I'm a blood mage."

There. Nice and simple. No questions or shades of gray, right? It doesn't matter how many times or why or how it happened or what you meant. She knew what she was doing. It's not like you can do it by accident. That's not how it works and they both know it.

Anders starts to pace. He can't stay still anymore. Everything inside of him screams at him that it's not that he heard wrong, that it's not true. Because he knows her, and she wouldn't.  
Except that she's not lying and he knows it. He's known it... forever. Somehow the knowledge is there and it scares him, it makes him furious and sad and desperate. Not because of he's scared of her_, _not the way she's thinking,but because of what it means _for her_. But he doesn't feel safe anymore. Not after this. A cold chill runs down his spine. Blood magic is dangerous. It is forbidden for a reason. It is too tempting, too powerful. You can lose yourself in it and that is what scares him most of all. That she loses herself. That _he_ loses _her._

He knows of the dangers. He feels them every time he heals someone, the temptation to use what's already there, at his fingertips. He was tempted more than ever there on the battlements when he was so afraid she could die.

Rhyanon can feel the tension radiating from him, and she curls up tighter, huddling against the wall, trying to disappear into the shadows. She tells herself she doesn't care. She's known all along how he feels about this. He's so much stronger than she is. So much _better. _He was always able to help her despite the fact that everything he'd gone through was always, _always_ worse than the little things that seemed big enough to swallow her.

"Go ahead, Anders," she whispers. "Tell me I deserve to die."

"Shut up!" he yells instead. "Blood magic?! Are you _serious_?" Panic is clawing at his stomach, he can barely think straight. The only thing he knows is that this is _dangerous_. This could get her killed, and he can't lose her. "Dammit Mel, what are you thinking?!"

His screaming brings back the memories. So clear, and so strong. Her shaking hands holding tight to a razor blade. Whispers and screams in her head. The ripples of water in the bathtub. And blood. So much blood. It stopped hurting after a while and things got dark and it felt... good. She didn't have to care anymore, she didn't have to outrun anything, or lie, or wait, or want, or be afraid.

_ She glanced down at the gradient of damp, swirling color. White and pink and red. Her breathing began to accelerate into a shallow gasping that didn't provide enough oxygen as she began to panic. Her head spun, and she grasped desperately, her fingertips scrabbled against the slippery smooth tile. She sank backward and her head smacked, hard, against the edge of the tub. The echo of her own impact rang loud in her ears. Her arm stung with fiery pain as the soapy water mingled with the blood of her raw wounds; but she held onto that. The pain kept her awake. _

_ **Feel**. She looked down, and drew in a ragged breath that she held onto with as much force as she held onto the new awareness that was almost too strong to put into words: I** don't want to die. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to...**_

_ She pulled on what she had: colors, and pain, and blood. She pulled on it and it strengthened her. _

_ The scars remained, but they closed into smooth white lines. She suddenly felt everything more strongly. She could feel the tiny breezes that blew in the windowless room, the humidity clinging to her skin, the resonant vibrations that echoed off the tile, the ripples of the water. She felt like she could breathe, really breathe, in a way she couldn't remember since she came to the Tower. And she wasn't scared anymore. She felt powerful._

"I didn't want to die," she finally whispers. "I thought I did, but I didn't. And it was the only thing I had."

She feels the same way now. That power inside her is the only thing that reminds her that she's worth something. Those times when she needs it come more and more often, and she is scared as hell. She can't always stop herself.

Anders closes his eyes. He knows all too well what she means. He knows too much about blood, how it smells, how it feels, sticky against his fingers, the only warm thing in the cold. And full of power. If it wasn't for the ever-present wards, maybe he would have resorted to the same measures, and maybe he wouldn't have been strong enough to control it and it _scares_ him. It scares him that she felt so desperate as well because she _shouldn't_. She is too good for this. Too smart. Smarter than he ever was or could hope to be.

"It never lasts," he says, more to himself than to her.

Rhyanon knows she should fight him on this. She should tell him she's stronger than he thinks, that she can control it, that she has been controlling it, for years, that she doesn't care what he thinks. But all of that is a lie. He's _right_, and she knows it. She's only been prolonging the inevitable. And it grows more and more certain every time.

"I know," she replies. There is so much fear in those two quiet words. Her breathing is shaky and broken.

Anders reaches out and rubs her left arm, tracing over the fine white scars there. He tries to tell himself that they are new, that they surprise him. He can't clearly remember ever seeing them before, but the confusion somehow makes him even more certain they _he should have seen it_. She needed help, and he wasn't there. And he should have been.

"You have to stop," he pleads. "It'll kill you."

Rhyanon nods. Agreeing without fully realizing she's agreeing. She covers the scars he's been tracing with her other hand. It's maybe the first time she's longed for the long robes that hide stuff like this. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, suddenly feeling much colder. She moves closer to Anders, standing next to the railing, and she peers over it. Long way down.

"This isn't a solution, Mel. It's the safest way to... become an abomination. it's just one small step from here. One slip. Just one, no matter how tiny."

"I'm not an abomination, Anders!"

Her voice sounds far too loud given that they've been barely whispering. Her stomach hurts. She wants to be angry at him. She _is_, a little, in that instinctive reaction. But mostly she's just terrified. "You're just like them, you don't even care..." She trails off. It's too hard to talk when she's crying.

That brings him back into reality with a start and he grabs her shoulders, hard. "Do you even listen to yourself when you talk? I care! I always did because I l..." he breaks off, lets go of her, so abruptly that it hurts. "Forget it. You're the one who doesn't care, because if you did, you'd _listen_."

"I care!" She clenches her hands into fists, very tight, and concentrates on breathing. She _does_ care, even though she shouldn't. She can't afford to. He's going to leave her. Everybody leaves her. "You act like I want to! Like it's fun or something. Maker, Anders, what is wrong with you? It's not like I do it all the time! Only..." She swallows hard, shakes her head. The voices are still screaming, the memories flash through her head too fast to follow. Her heart starts to race. "Only when I have to. If I didn't, we wouldn't be standing here."

"There is nothing that would justify blood magic! Nothing, Mel, not even..."  
Again he breaks off. He means it, but he can't say it. Not even to save someone's life. Not even hers.

"Not even ending the Blight?"

Anders head snaps up again. He didn't expect that. But he's not willing to give in. Maybe she's right. Maybe it was worth it. But he's too stubborn to admit it. "There's always a better way. There has to be."

"Maybe there is. But I didn't have time to figure it out."

"Who is he?"

He doesn't know where that question comes from but he is suddenly very sure she used blood magic to not only end the Blight but to save someone in particular as well. He can't figure out any other reason for her to do such a thing.

"What?"  
She's very confused by the sudden shift in conversation. And guilty. Because of course there's an answer to that question, but how does he know that? She's been very careful not to mention it, ever.

Not that they've talked about much in the past few days. They've been too busy avoiding each other.

"You didn't do it for the sake of everyone else. There's... someone special, right?"  
The question strangles him. He thinks of that fight on the roof. That name. She'd called him Alistair.

The grief she's been carefully avoiding suddenly overwhelms her. It hurts to much to cry about this. There's just this emptiness inside her, like an open pit just waiting to swallow her. Who cares why she did what she did? It doesn't matter anymore. It was supposed to be her that died, they'd agreed. He'd agreed. "Does it matter?" she asks Anders. Very, very carefully. She somehow manages to keep her voice from shaking. "There isn't anymore."

"I see." Anders replies. His voice is low. Calm. He curls his fingers into a fist to stop himself from fidgeting.

"Why are you mad at me?" Rhyanon snaps. Because getting defensive is much simpler than trying to figure out why she's mad at herself. She doesn't want to think about this.  
"I'm not."

"You know I'd die for you right?"

"Yeah, I know," he replies softly. "Me too."

"I know." She's surprised by how strongly she _does_ know. She's always known. She looks down again, at the scars on her arm. She is accutely aware of the deeper one cutting across her shoulder. Dying is easy. "But you never stay."

"No. I don't."

"You don't make any sense, Anders."

He laughs. Dry. Hard. Hollow.

"No I don't, right?"

"What are you afraid of?"

"Walls," he breathes. "A cage. Love. I... don't know really, I..."

"There's no such thing as love in the Circle Tower." She murmurs the words that they all know with the same rote certainty that they know the Chant, after years and decades of painful repetition. She can't remember who said it or when or even _if_ anyone did, out loud. The knowledge is there.

"No, there isn't," he confirms.

"But I loved you anyway. I... love you. Still."

"I know."

Rhyanon sighs. Tears sting her eyes. Panic begins clawing at her stomach "I don't want you to be scared of me, Anders," she barely manages to choke out. She can handle him leaving. She's used to that. But outright rejection, being left alone... that's more than she can take.

"I'm not scared of you. I'm scared _for_ you. You need to understand that, Rhyanon! I never was scared of you! How could I be? You're... my only friend!"

She reaches for his hand. Words have never been good, for them. They always talk around each other and things wind up even more confused. She just needs him to _be here_. That's all. And even that's too much to ask for. "I don't know what to do," she admits.

It seems like it always comes back to that, with her and him. She loves him too much to make him stay. She needs him too much to let him go.

He squeezes her hand. "I don't know either. I wish I did."

"Stay. I need you. Please, stay." It's the same words she used in the tower, but it's different now. His choice. No one will drag him back if he walks away from her now. She's not afraid of him dying, or getting hurt. Not really, it's not a certain inevitable outcome. If he leaves her now, she'll never see him again.

"You don't know what you're expecting of me!" He cries out, in anguish. Without thinking, he drives his fist into the railing at his side. "I would try, and if I did I'd hurt you and I _can't_! I love you too much to hurt you!"

"You don't think you already hurt me?!" She screams right back. She doesn't even process - at first - the fact that he said _love_. "I care about you more than I care about myself! I hurt _for_ you. With you. Every time... I'm scared for you." That part she says more quietly. Echoing his own words.

"And this is exactly why I can't stay! I have hurt you already too much, too often! It kills me, Rhyanon!"

"It's not your fault," she says softly. "That wasn't you, it was the templars. We're not in the tower anymore. You're safe here. You're safe with me, Anders, I swear."

"Nothing's safe! Nowhere! Never! They'll catch me again and I can't..." He doesn't even know what he's saying. Panic makes his heart speed up. Another year in solitary will kill him. He knows it, and he has to keep moving. He has to stay a step ahead of them this time. Always a step ahead...

"They can't touch you!" Rhyanon yells, right back. It helps. She's so determined and frustrating and loud that it forces him to focus. Her volume lowers slightly when his eyes meet hers, but if anything, she sounds even more bitter, angry at the world. Angry at everything but him. "That's what I gave you, along with this taint and this curse and this fucking 'greater duty,'" she spits. "Maker knows I wouldn't have done it if I had any other choice. _You are safe here._"

She grabs his arm and forces him to acknowledge her. She needs him to believe it. "You're the only good thing I have left," she tells him, desperately.

"What are you talking about, Rhyanon?" Anders asks softly. His head is spinning. "You were the best person in that damn tower, the best person I ever met. You're strong. You ended a Blight. You saved my life at least twice. You're so much better than you think"

"Then why does everybody leave me?!"

He knows the answer to that, but he also knows that she won't understand it. She can't accept it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. People leave her because they love her. He also knows she's not just talking about him leaving. She also means that other man. This Alistair. He doesn't know what happened to him, but she feels left by him as well.

"Who's everybody, Mel?" he asks carefully.

"_Everybody_. You. And my family. Duncan. Zevran. And..." she pauses briefly, but then pushes on. "And Alistair."

Every single person in her life who has ever made a promise to her has broken it. _Everybody_.

He doesn't know what to say to that. He cannot give her an answer that is easy to understand or do anything to console her. He cannot speak for anyone else and he cannot speak for himself either, because that would mean telling her more than he is willing to. He's already said way too much. "I don't know," he says instead. "I'm sorry, Mel, I don't know. I wish I did, but all I can tell you is that that's what people do. They always leave. Not necessarily because they want to. Sometimes they're forced. Because they want to protect you. Because they don't want to hurt you. Because they think it's better that way."

"Do you think it's better that way?" she whispers. "That your life's better without me?"

"No. My life's not worth anything without you in it. But it is better that way. Because you are better off without me."

"Fuck you!" She punches him, tries to push him down. Her fists pound against his shoulder. "You're wrong! You keep trying to run away from me. But I. Won't. Let. You!" She is in full on tantrum mode. Like a little kid. Crying and screaming. "I hate you!"

He reacts instinctively, catches her flying fists and holds onto her tightly. "No, you don't. You love me and you know it," he teases. He knows it probably is just the wrong thing to do but he can't help himself.

Rhyanon glares at him, but her frantic crying subsides, and her body calms. "I don't hate you," she admits, way too seriously.

"I know." And that scares him. She should hate him. It would make things so much more easier.

"You're still wrong. It's not better when you go away. It's worse."

He wishes she wouldn't say that. He doesn't want to feel guilty for running, for doing the right thing. They had had these conversations over and over in the past, and it took him ages to not feel this guilt when he escaped the tower once more. _He can't stay!_ Why doesn't she understand that? Staying in one place for too long is killing him. Knowing that she wants him to stay is killing him, because he _just can't_. "Did you ever feel like you can't breathe in the tower?" he asks carefully. "Like there's not enough space? A feeling of pressure, weighing you down, making you panic. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yes." Rhyanon answers immediately. She knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Then you know how I feel, almost all the time. Sometimes I can almost forget it, but it's always there. And it gets stronger, day by day, the longer I'm forced to stay in one place.

She frowns. _All the time?_ Even here?

"This isn't the tower, Anders. You're allowed to leave."

"Am I? Being a Warden is for life, isn't that what you said? And even if it wasn't... it still feels like a prison. This Keep, these people, how they look at me..."

"How do they look at you?"

A surprisingly intense feeling of concern washes over her. Almost posessiveness. She needs to take care of him. She thought she'd had a good enough idea of what was going on in the Keep. But if she lets herself tell the truth, she hasn't been paying attention at all.

"Scared. Hostile. Guarded. They look at me like the templars do. One false move, one wrong word, and they'll call them down on me again. All those guards on the battlements... this is just another prison."

Rhyanon shakes her head. She knows how hard it is to shake that feeling of being constantly watched. The shadows of men in armor still unsettle her. It takes effort to remind herself that they're all on the same side. Anders is wrong about this, though. He has to be.

She rests her palm gently on his cheek and watches the firelight flicker in his eyes for a moment. "Anders, do you trust me?" she asks softly.

"I do," he says, without hesitation. She's the only one he can trust, she always was.

"The keep is not a prison. No one will hurt you. You can leave. Just... You can come back too, okay? It's safe here." _I'm here._

"I'll try to remember that just... don't push me. Give me some time."

"Okay." She says it softly. She doesn't quite know what else to say. She doesn't want to push him, but at the same time, she can't just never talk to him. She doesn't want to do that. She really misses the days when he could make her feel better and it absolutely kills her that she can't do the same for him.

"Thank you, Mel. I appreciate that. Really, I do."

"Did you honestly think I'd keep you here? Try to tell you what to do? You know me better than that."

"That's never kept you from trying, kid," he answers, smile widening.

"I'm not a kid," she insists, just barely able to keep herself from laughing. "You think you get to tell me what to do?"

"You wanna try me?"

He is definitely teasing her now. She laughs, and shakes her head. She's smiling. Happy. "Let's pretend for a minute that I might actually listen to you. What orders are you planning to give me?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could come up with something fun." He raises an eyebrow playfully. His voice is a purr, suggestive and charmingly challenging.

He makes it sound like a good idea. And that scares Rhyanon a little bit. She frowns. "Are you serious, Anders?" She sounds... slightly hopeful, a little hesitant, and mostly confused. He's never flirted with her before. Not even playing. Everyone else, but not her.

"You've never wanted to before." It sounds almost whiny. Accusing.

Who said he didn't want to? Sure he did, but it was _her_. "I did," he says simply.

He bites his lip. That was stupid. He shouldn't have told her. It's not the smart thing to do, but he doesn't want to be smart. He wants her close again, wants the understanding that was once there. He wants her.

And she believes him. He sounds serious again, not teasing or joking. She crawls into his lap, without thinking about it. "Since when?"

He gives a soft sound that is half laugh, half moan. Having her in his lap is not helping him play this cool. "Since... I don't know... For a long time."

Rhyanon seems to accept that. She kisses him. Slow and hesitant. She's still a little scared. Anders reaches up, touches her neck with his fingertips, not sure if he should pull her close or allow her to take the lead. He kisses her back, gently. This shouldn't feel right. But it does. She holds onto him more tightly, kisses him more urgently. He can feel her heart pounding beneath her ribs, the rhythm of it pushes against his fingertips like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. He closes his eyes, wraps his arm around her waist, pulls her closer. This feels good. His heart skips a beat with the urgency of her kiss. He hoped she would feel like this, but he didn't dare believe it.

Eventually, Rhyanon breaks away, reluctantly. There's still the voice in her head screaming that this is a terrible idea. The part of her that's afraid to get close. She's been hurt too many times already. She trusts him. _But_...

Anders inhales a long, deep breath. "Wow," he whispers against her lips. "That was... amazing."

She nods, and brushes her lips against his again. Just checking. If it's still the same. Amazing. She wraps her arms around him and breathes him in, she can feel him and taste him. He feels warm. Safe. She smiles. She feels good. He has always been able to make her feel good.

Anders leans back until his weight rests on his elbow, the other arm still wrapped around her as he pulls her with him. He doesn't want to let her go. She feels so good. He closes his eyes again, enjoys the feeling of her body pressed against his. She curls up against him and listens: to the wind, the rustle of leaves, to his breathing. She's still twitchy though. She can't get totally comfortable. She allows him to hold her close, but she doesn't relax. Not completely.

"What's wrong, Mel?" Anders gently asks, stroking her hair, trying to make her feel at ease.

"I don't know," she lies. "Nothing. Just old habits, I guess."

* * *

Here's the truth guys: I never really knew what this story was, except for a collection of over 20,000 words that told me things I needed to know, that many good friends told me I needed to share. It was Anders and Rhyanon needing to talk a lot of things out. It was a necessary bridge. And in the beginning, I figured I would tell the Awakening story, but that's not what needed to happen. It turns out I don't need a novel, I just need slightly over 20,000 words. I need Rhyanon and Anders to come together and then separate, because that's what they do. They need to tell the truth, and then walk away. So no, it's not the end of a story, just an interlude. I've managed to connect a lot of fragmented pieces I've had lying around, and give these guys a space to vent their fears and drama. I didn't think at all that this was all they wanted me to do, that this chapter would be an end of sorts, but they have told me, quite suddenly, in that way that they do, that this is in fact the case. So, to those that asked me for "something with Anders in it" a few weeks ago, this is what I managed to pull together. I'm glad I did it, for what it's worth. So is he. I think my next project won't be Dragon Age. I'm curious to see what it will be.


End file.
